


Save A Horse, Ride A Dragon

by BirchBow (chaoticTenebrism)



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragons, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Gen, King of Detroit hereafter haha, Lord Vanquisher, M/M, Mike is ridiculous and makes bad choices for LOVE and CHIVALRY: the fic, Multi, Mutual Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Apocalyptic Future-Fantasy, Pre-Poly, Slow Burn, Species Dysphoria, The Smiling Dragon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-01-06 23:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 176,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12221082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticTenebrism/pseuds/BirchBow
Summary: There are more and more murals overhead as they ride deeper into Old Detroit.  Warnings, tributes.  A chronicle of Raymanthia’s rise to power.  In a lot of them a figure in a sweeping cloak stands above the chaos, hands spread, a golden crown hovering over his cloaked head.  Sometimes he’s holding a lance, a sword—in one, his hands are raised over his head holding what’s unmistakeably a dragon skull, a sword buried between its empty eye-sockets.WYRMSLAYER, somebody has written, in dripping blood-red.--It's been a long time since Mike had a knighthood, a kingdom, aking.  But fortunately for him, the mysterious Lord Vanquisher has taken up residence in the ruins of the capitol city, and he's willing to make Mike and his mercs an offer they don't want to refuse.





	1. Dragon Wings, Painted Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **"I helde my Lovs Hart in myne Hande and he spake of Confiedence to me, "let thys never be taken from thee for however longe as myne Hart is helden by thee, my lorde, thart Master of me and my Fyre be thyne"."**_  
>  \--Unknown Author, approx. 1400 BC. Document fragment salvaged from a pre-Fall building believed to be a former National History Museum. Currently held at the private library of his majesty the Vanquisher, ruler of Raymanthia, lord of the Michigan Wilds.

They’re in the middle of a tiny, burned-out town in the middle of the Michigan Wilds when Dutch jumps and says “…We just got a hit for a job.”

“Oh yeah?”  Mike is sitting on the a ledge looking out over the nameless, slow-moving river they’ve been riding along.  When he pushes himself up and picks his way over to the fire, the flames glint strangely bright, golden in his eyes.  They always seem to, even when there’s no fire around.  Nobody bothers to be taken aback anymore.  “Who’s looking?”

“Better be somebody cool!"  Texas bellows from down the road.  He's not really far enough away that he needs to shout, but that's Texas all over, really.  He finishes feeding the horses, pats his mare Stronghorn companionably on the nose and then jogs over.  Julie moves over absently as he drops down next to her by the fire and pulls his armor into his lap to start polishing.  “We’re not takin’ another _lame_ job, we totally agreed.  Texas don't work for peanuts.”

“If lame jobs are what’s on offer, we’re taking the lame jobs,” says Julie.  She’s been picking through the day’s scavenging haul; her hands are resting on the flat, black shell of an ancient computing device.  “And you can hang back and not get your cut, if you want.”

“Listen, Sara—”

“Uh…” Dutch is still frowning at whatever message he’s getting.  His eyebrows are slowly rising as it comes through.  “ _Uh_ …” he says again, a little more tensely this time, emphatic and startled.  “Well, okay!  So...hm."  He stops, frowning, and then glances over at Mike.  "...So."

“We didn’t make you our contact so you could keep us in suspense,” says Julie, dryly amused.  “Just play it already!”

Dutch makes a pained kind of noise, and his eyes flicker to Mike again.  “Well,” he says slowly, and clears his throat.  “It’s, uh…it’s from a king.”

“A— _seriously_?”  Texas laughs incredulously.  “ _Yeah!_   I mean, yeah, obviously Texas’s greatness—”

“What king,” says Mike flatly. 

Dutch flicks a hand, throws the comm spell into the air in front of him.  The voice that was talking in his ear is suddenly audible to the whole camp, echoing faintly off the distant buildings. 

“ _—have been made aware of your qualifications, and are interested in employing you forthwith at his majesty’s court of Raymanthia,_ ” says a voice, quiet and steady.  They’re speaking full court formal, every word precise and intoned.  It’s been a long time since somebody bothered to talk politely to the Burners at all, let alone full formal; Mike’s eyebrows rise behind his shaggy bangs. “ _We would be honored by your attendance on his majesty’s court.  Compensation will be provided for your time.  Coordinates—_ ”

“That’s all,” says Dutch, and pulls the spell again, spinning it back into one of his earrings as the message starts to repeat.  “They don’t say what they want, they didn’t name the king.  All we got is kingdom and coordinates.”

Mike glances at Julie, lips thin.  She's already way ahead of him, pulling one of Dutch's maps out of his bag and spreading it out on the ground.  “Go on,” she says.

“North forty-two—”

The map adjusts as he speaks, a little glowing dot roaming across sketched towns and forests, badlands and ruined cities.  “I think I’ve heard of ‘Raymanthia’,” says Mike, watching, less cold now and more interested.  “Like…once, maybe.  It can’t be a big place.”

“It does sound _kinda_ familiar,” says Julie dubiously.  “I know all the big names in Michigan, my dad made me learn them.  _Princess internship training._ "  She grimaces and rolls her eyes.  "The old state is six major kingdoms right now, not including the University or any new monarchs that have started up in the last year or two.  And Raymanthia's not on the list." 

“…nine-eight west,” Dutch finishes, and leans over in anticipation as the map searches, up the river, to— “Oh man.”

The marker is hovering over the bank of the river, in the middle of a sprawling city at the edge of the old state boundaries.  In his messy, tiny scrawl, Dutch has copied down the old name, “Detroit”.  That's been crossed out since, and written under it are the words “Capitol City”—under that, “Deluxe”. 

Mike sits back and shakes his head, letting out a frustrated sigh that's more than half growl.

“So it’s a trap,” he says, matter-of-fact.  “Geez, how dumb does Kane think I am?  Like I’m just gonna go marching into his old capitol? _The_ old capitol?”

“He doesn’t care about Detroit anymore, though,” Julie points out—she’s frowning at the map, like the paper might offer up its secrets.  “He doesn't care about any of the cities near the border, now that he's got New Deluxe set up--as soon as he was gone, he just let the looters tear that place apart. 

"I heard there's a curse on that place," Dutch puts in.  "Even when somebody tries to settle down there, they suck hardcore or they only stay like a couple of years before somebody else drives them out.”

“Right,” says Mike firmly.  “So there’s no kingdom there.  He made up a kingdom, put it right back where his old capitol city was and expected me to go running the first time a king said ‘come’.”  He stands up very abruptly.  “Who sent the message?”

“Let me try to scry it back,” Julie sighs, and holds out her hands; Dutch unravels the spell from his earring again and feeds it into her hands and Julie starts tinkering with it, eyes focused and lips moving silently. 

“So wait,” says Texas.  “It came outta Bardonia?”

There’s a moment of silence, then Mike turns back to the fire and says “…What?”

“Bardonia,” says Texas, like this should be common knowledge.  “Place where the capitol used to be.  Lotta wars and stuff.  They started up when I was, like, twelve?”

“…A couple years after Kane went crusading,” Dutch mutters, and glances up at Mike.  “Checks out.  So there’s somebody still there?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Texas.  “I mean, last time Texas heard about it.  But the king’s a jerk.”

“He didn’t say ‘Bardonia’,” says Julie, quiet and focused.  She’s got a salvaged mirror out, watching intently as image swim behind the cracked glass.  “He said _Raymanthia._ ”

“So they changed the name,” says Texas.  “Real fancy.  King’s still a jerk.”

Mike sits there for a second, staring into the fire.  When he finally speaks, he sounds preoccupied, distant.

“…I don’t just want to see who called,” he says.  “I want to call them back.”

Dutch and Julie share a worried look.  When Mike gets that look on his face, it means he has something on his mind and he’s not going to let go of it any time soon. 

“Mike…” says Dutch.  Mike glances up at him, and his eyes flash again in the firelight, tawny-gold and green, pupils just a little bit strange. 

“I wanna see who picks up,” he says.  “Talk to them a little bit.  We don’t have any work lined up, and…anybody who doesn’t like Kane could be a friend of ours.”

“Aw, sweet,” says Texas, satisfied, and slides his breastplate off his lap to pick up the knife he keeps in his boot instead.  “Never worked for a king before.”

“Julie,” Mike says.  “You got it yet?”

“I…almost,” Julie admits, and then hurries to add, “—But you know they’re not going to be happy to get a call back on a private line, right?”

“If they can’t handle a little bit of Tiny doin’ what he wants, they’re not gonna keep us around anyway,” Texas says, and scrubs a fleck of old blood off the handle of his knife.  When he holds it up to the firelight, his reflection gleams back from the blade like a mirror.  He gives himself a grin, wiggles his eyebrows and then sheathes it and moves on to his nunchucks.  "Am I right, or am I right?"

“Yeah,” Mike says firmly.  “I wanna surprise them.  People are honest when you catch ‘em off-balance.”

Julie opens her mouth—closes it again.  “…Mm,” she says, thoughtful, and considers Mike’s earnest face for a long second.  “…okay, Cowboy.  But if you lose us this deal, you’re going to have to find us our next job.”

“Yes ma’am,” says Mike, grinning.  Julie sighs at him fondly, and then leans back down over the mirror.  In the intricate golden locket around her neck, a fathomless, yellow-green stone the size of a robin's egg glitters in the light from the fire.  Julie reaches up and touches it absently, frowning with concentration; her dark eyes brighten to golden-green brilliance, pupils narrowing to inhuman slits.

“…It’s…hard to see,” she says, and scowls belligerently, wrinkling up her nose as the image on her mirror wavers.  “I can get within a couple miles of the coordinates, and then I can't--make it go any-- _closer._ "  She strains for another second, teeth gritted, and then lets out a sharp huff and sits back.  The blurry image abruptly clears.  The other Burners lean in to see over her shoulder; through the glass, there's nothing but a rough stone wall in the middle of an apparently-abandoned field.

“That’s gotta be the border of the kingdom,” says Dutch.  Julie waves a hand in the air and follows the line of the fence with the spell, like she’s trying to find a way in.concentrating; every time her scrying spell edges up to the wall, it cuts out again into a blur.  "Geez, this place must be warded up to heck and back, if Julie can't see in there."

“Not even with your present,” Julie points out, glancing at Mike.  Her hand drops away from the stone around her neck again, and Mike gives her a fast, half-distracted smile.  “I thought you said this thing could see through anything.”

“Almost anything,” Mike says absently.  He’s got one hand on his chest, thumb rubbing absently back and forth across his breastbone—a familiar tic.   His head is bowed forward so his bangs hang over his eyes, obscuring them behind a curtain of shaggy brown hair.  The other Burners share a look over his head, fond and frustrated and worried all at the same time.

“Hey, Cowboy,” Julie says, a little bit gentler.  “You okay?”

“Huh?”  Mike blinks, drops his hand and sits up.  “Uh—yeah, sure!  What’s—why?”

“You were the one who wanted me to get into their system,” Julie points out,  “—And you look like you’re a million miles away all of a sudden.”

“What?”  Mike laughs unconvincingly and shakes his head.  “No!  Nah, I’m good.  Do you think you can get us the guy who called us?”

“We probably won't be able to see him, but...yeah, I think I can figure that out.”  Julie turns her attention back to the mirror, eyes glowing and glittering, softly uplit by the light from her locket.  “…The spell is totally scrambled, but there's always a way in."  She bares her teeth for a second, pushing.  "Just--a little..."

The image in the mirror fizzes, blurs, melts into static and then...settles.  On the other end there's a colorful blur, a smudge that might be a pale face with equally pale hair.  

" _Hello_?" says the person on the other end of the call.  They sound warped and staticky, and  _extremely_ startled.  " _I_ _—hello?_ _Who is this?  How did you get this signature?_ ”

“We’ve got some skills,” says Mike.  “This is Mike Chilton.”  And then, realizing a bit late that might not be enough, “…The, uh.  The Deserter.  You guys called us first.”

There’s a faint inhale from the other end of the spell—the blur shifts, straightening up.  When their mystery caller speaks again, their tone has shifted from startled to formal and evenly paced.  It’s hard to tell, but it might be the same voice that offered them a job.  “ _Yes, of course.  My apologies for not recognizing you sooner, sir._ ”

“I’m not a sir,” says Mike, a little ruefully.  Julie frowns at him, jerks her head toward the mirror—Mike shakes his head.  Sure, this guy seems to wanna be formal; he wants to put up a barrier of professionality, well, Mike doesn't have to deal with that crud anymore.  He’s a merc, now, not a knight.  If he doesn’t match tone sometimes, his new employers are gonna have to deal with that.

“Look, dude, we can’t find anything about your kingdom, we don’t know what you want us to do for you, and you never mentioned what kind of compensation you were offering over there.”  Mike grins.  “…You never hired mercs before, huh?”

“ _I, uh,_ ” says the guy.  He sounds flustered, losing his dignified tone.  “ _That's not--yes, perhaps, b_ _ut_ how did you get this signature?  _That was a one-way call.”_

“Skills,” Mike repeats.  Julie elbows him in the ribs and he huffs and amends, “…You gotta know _some_ stuff about us, if you called us for help.  I thought everybody knew we busted through Deluxe's Imperial Ward before we left.  You're pretty good, but you're not _that_ good.”

“… _I believe I had good reason to assume that story was exaggerated,_ ” says the guy on the other end of the call.  He’s collected himself enough to go back into court formal, but he sounds kind of impressed through the static.  There’s a pause, then he sighs and starts again, a little less confrontational this time.  “ _Our kingdom is young, and threatened from all sides.  Many foes marshal at our borders.  We need strength of arms, and…reputation._ ”

“Not sure you want my kind of _reputation_ ,” Mike points out.  Dutch elbows him and gives him a wide-eyed look, mouthing something like _dude, what the heck?_   Mike shrugs back.  _Well, it’s the truth!_

For a long second, the guy on the other end of the call is silent.

“ _…Your reputation says you stood up to the Deluxian Empire_ ,” he says finally.  “ _And spat in King Abraham’s face.  So…I think we do._ ”

Mike’s eyebrows rise, and a half-smile spreads across his face.  “Oh, yeah?  Your king’s…not a fan of Kane?”

“ _That would be one way to phrase it,”_ says the blurry face on the other end of the spell.  There’s a hitch to the words that might be a laugh.  “ _…Your rebellion against the empire is token enough to earn our majesty’s trust, and rumor speaks to your skill.”_

“Yeah, well we’re cool that way,” says Texas, and shoves in next to Mike, squinting at the blurry image in the mirror.  “So you guys aren’t Bardonia anymore, or what?  Is that jerk Mad Dog the Whatever still running stuff?”

“ _Mad Dog the Conqueror?_ ”  The guy on the other end of the line laughs again.  “ _No.  No, I don’t…uh.  The king deposed him several years ago.  Lord Vanquisher has no patience for acts of senseless violence, and Mad Dog’s acts were as senseless and violent as his wars were numerous._ ”

…Jeez, is this guy gonna match tone or what?  Mike had him pegged as a servant or a clerk or something.  But servants and clerks tend to get the idea when Mike refuses to talk formal with them, and it's usually pretty easy to get them to match form.  This guy is just steadfastly polite as hell.  Maybe he’s actually a nobleman of some kind?

Julie apparently is wondering along the same vein, because she takes a deep breath, firmly controlled, and says “…Might we ask to whom we are speaking?”

There’s a moment of silence.  “ _You might,_ ” says the person on the other side of the mirror, “ _But one might find oneself disinclined to answer._ ”

“Not doing a whole bunch for making us trust you,” Mike points out.  Julie hisses and elbows at him--Mike pushes her elbow away, defensive.  “--I’m just saying!  This 100% looks like a trap, dude, if you want our help you’re going to have to give us more than that.”

There’s a long moment of silence.  Then, finally, the figure on the other end of the call sighs.

“ _…This offer was unsanctioned by the court,”_ he says plainly.  " _It is by the king's authority alone I extended this offer to you_ _—he believes your help is needed, but his steward—mm.  His Grace, the Duke of Detroit, prefers to avoid…outside interference.  He cares for the kingdom!  But, uh.  He is…he holds strong opinions._ ”

“So this is…under the table.”

“ _No._ ”  The man sighs.  “ _Yes.  In a manner of speaking.  It would be bettet that you treat this matter with...discretion._   _Your compensation would be your choice of the artifacts from the royal treasury, or cash payment if you decide not to take the offer.  Call it…eighty?  Can we leave it at that?_ ”

The Burners share a look—a silent consensus.  Mike glances from face to face, then nods and turns back to the mirror.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Guess we can.  We’re a day’s ride out.  If we decide to come, you’ll see us tomorrow evening.  Sound fair?”

“ _I—yes!_ ”  the voice sounds startled—maybe even pleased.  “ _Yes, absolutely!  We’ll…prepare a room!_ ”

“Sounds good.”  Mike salutes.  “We can talk details if we decide to take you up on it.  Chilton out.”

There’s a flicker and a tiny sizzling pop, and Julie slumps as the spell cuts off.  She concentrates for a second, drawing herself back up—then slumps, shaking her head.  “Whoever that was, he’s already closed up the connection I traced back,” she says.  “That was quick.”

“Sounds like he’s pretty high up in the kingdom,” Dutch points out.  “If there is one.  I dunno, guys, even if he’s legit, I don’t like the sound of all this political biz.  Since when do kings have to do stuff behind their advisors' backs?  I mean...Mike?”

“...Raymanthia, huh?”  Mike smiles to himself for a second, shakes his head once and then, abruptly, seems to snap back to life.  He springs up, grinning.  “—well, cool!  We can head out tomorrow!”

He goes jogging over to the horses as Dutch and Julie exchange worried looks.  Texas, of course, doesn’t seem to share their concerns at all; he whoops and throws a couple of jubilant punches into the air.

“Mike…”  Dutch says again.

“This could be good,” Mike says, and he still sounds a little but uncertain but he also sounds…hopeful.  “This could be really good, you guys!  I mean, if he’s really a good king, if he doesn’t like Kane…”

"I'm still not sure I like the sound of it," Julie says, and frowns into the distance, eyes tinted golden-green as she scries.  By the expression of distant frustration creasing the corners of her mouth, she’s still not having any luck getting through.  “Just because somebody tells you something isn't a trap, that doesn't make it true.”

"A trap?  What, from a king called 'The Vanquisher'?"  Dutch's mouth quirks up.  "Nah.  Come on.  That's such a trustworthy-soundin' title though."

"I'm telling you," Mike says, and pats his horse's neck gently, admiring the glossy sheen of her coat.  "I've got a good feeling.  Have my instincts ever led us wrong?"  An instant clamor.  Mike laughs and holds up his hands in surrender.  "Fine!  Fine.  But I want to at least meet him.  And if he turns out to be...everything his title sounds like...we don't have to take a contract with him.  We can just go."

"Unless he's one of those  _crazy_  kings."  Texas has given up on armor and weapon maintenance and has started his nightly workout instead, doing pushups right outside the ring of firelight.  "Y'know, the kind that get your head chopped off if you show up and then leave, like—"

"Come on," Mike says.   "I swear, I'll get us in and out safe.  But I bet I won't have to.  I bet it turns out great."  He smiles, and almost in unison the other three sigh, resigned to their fates.  "...trust me."

—

Mike makes calls the next day as they ride up the river toward Raymanthia, talking to contacts across the state.  Everybody is aware of Old Deluxe, a lot of people know about Bardonia—but it takes quite a few calls until the name “Raymanthia” rings any bells.  Apparently they’re new; the king renamed the kingdom when he took over, four years ago, in the midst of a bloody and incredibly destructive series of border wars.  The previous king had been overbearing and aggressive, another small-minded jerk trying to imitate the Deluxian Empire's massive expansion.  Apparently Lord Vanquisher rose up from the masses to lead an extremely successful coup. 

It sounds like it was a pretty legendary rebellion--according to Jacob,  Mad Dog had collared a dragon and forced it to fight for him, and Lord Vanquisher had…well.  Vanquished it. 

Nobody looks at Mike when they hear that, and Mike doesn’t say anything, but he’s pretty quiet for a while afterward. 

All dragon-slaying aside, Lord Vanquisher has been fairly conservative since his coup, which is part of the reason nobody seems to have heard of him.  According to Mike’s sources, the kingdom has retreated back to its old borders and hasn’t made any attempt to expand further.  But now the more warlike kingdoms around him are recovering strength and making forays onto his land.  So.  Mercenaries.

"War is war," Julie says dubiously.  And then, relenting as Mike gives her a look, "...But that could definitely be worse, yes."

“He’s only been king for a couple years?”  Texas snorts, sulky from the back of the pack.  After the third time he went galloping off to look at something, Mike took point and Texas was chivvied to the back of the order.  He’s been grumpy ever since.  “He’s like a _baby_ king.  We’re gonna fight for a baby king?”

"I could get behind fighting for this place," Dutch says, looking appreciatively up at the ancient arch of a seamless stone bridge arcing far overhead.  "Man, look at that.  This stuff is from before the Fall, most people don't bother to keep it around."

"Old stuff is boring and lame," Texas contributes.  

"It's important," Dutch says, with dignity.  "You have to remember your roots, dude."

“Welcome to Detroit,” Mike intones.

"Huh?" 

"That's what it used to say," Mike says, and nods up at a towering, ruined signboard high overhead.  "Dude, I've seen old pictures of this place!  That's so weird."

“What, from a camera?”  Dutch has been fascinated with pre-fall art and images for as long as the other Burners have known him—he immediately perks up.  “Where?”

“Uh…” Mike’s smile falls, just a little bit harder at the edges.  “…Capitol city.  New Deluxe has got some…archives.  They’re not open, you have to have a permit to go look.  Uh…a royal.  Permit.”

Dutch makes a pained kind of noise—sympathy for Mike’s half-understood history or frustration over King Abraham’s oppressive regime of censorship, it’s not really clear.  “He’s got _photos_ in there?”

“Surprised he didn’t just burn ‘em!”  Texas says.  Julie and Mike both wince, but Texas doesn’t seem to notice.  “He likes burnin’ stuff—”

“Are we almost there?”  Mike says, with a familiar kind of strained urgency he only ever seems to show when they talk about King Abraham.  Julie glances back and grimaces meaningfully at Texas—he rolls his eyes, but shuts up.  “Jules?”

Julie traces a sigil and grabs the scroll handily as it falls out of the air in front of her.  Ninelives comes to a stamping halt, tossing her head as Julie unrolls the map and looks it over. 

“Almost,” she reports eventually, and lays the paper out flat in the air—the landmarks painstakingly enchanted into its surface rise, shimmering faintly, forming a virtual landscape of the city around them.  “It was a huge city, before, and there just…aren’t enough people to fill the whole thing up.  Looks like most of the population is around here.”  She touches a cluster of buildings, along the winding line of the river.  “There’s plenty of fallen stone and a _ton_ of old towers.  You could put three other kingdoms in here and still have room to grow, jeez.”

“ETA?”

“Mm…” Julie glances up at the angle of the sun, squinting, then nods. “…Sundown, at a trot.” 

“Just in time for dinner!”  Texas exclaims, and spurs Stronghorn forward with a clatter of hooves that shakes the cracked asphalt.  Their careful riding order scatters abruptly as Stronghorn snorts and stomps resolutely through.  “Let’s go!”

“Watch it!”  says Dutch, mostly out of habit—Texas doesn't listen, just urges his destrier forward, pounding off between old, broken buildings.  Dutch bends down and pats his mare’s neck soothingly, glaring after Texas.  “He’s gonna knock somebody off their horse someday, and I’m gonna kick his butt.”

“Hey!  Stronghorn can’t hang out at the back of the pack!”  Texas calls back.  Stronghorn, apparently with the same sense of drama as her rider, rears up and whinnies impressively.  Texas whoops.  “She’s a total badass!  Look!  Hey!  You seen how big and cool she is?  Check it out.”

“We’ve been riding with you for _years,_ ” Julie says.  “Yes, Texas, we’ve seen your horse.  She’s too big for you.”

The argument about whether a draft horse is or isn’t too big for Texas to ride lasts them another hour and a half.  The landscape around them changes as they ride; overgrown ruins of ancient homes give way to taller structures, the occasional flaking storefront.  A billboard, overgrown by vines.  They fill another hour or two after that swapping stories, some of them real, some of them…embroidered.   Texas tells them all about how he saw a thunderbird once, how he rode on one to fight a phoenix, unfazed  by Mike’s laughing interjections—he’s seen a thunderbird, you can’t ride one, they’re mostly cloud.  Dutch tells them about the web that used to cover the whole world, like a massive, electronic communication spell into every home on the planet.  Continents and countries that don’t even exist anymore, that might as well not exist for all the Burners know about them. 

“I heard somebody’s working on it again,” Julie says, and Dutch perks up, interested.  “Out by the Lone Star Kingdom.”

“You mean out in TEXAS!” Texas contributes.  Julie sighs, but Mike laughs. 

“I’ve never been out there,” he says,  a little wistfully.  Turns a little bit in his saddle, watching the landscape slowly move by.  “There’s so much out there, it’s crazy.  Y’know?”

“What’s crazy is how TEXAS-SIZED all this stuff is!” Texas exclaims, and sweeps out an arm toward the buildings around them.  They’ve been getting taller and taller as the sun starts to creep down toward the horizon, looming over the Burners, throwing out colossal shadows.  The roads are cracked and chipped, but they’re getting more solid.  Every so often the Burners even ride past a farm; people have chipped up the road in great chunks and piled them up into walls, planting flourishing gardens in the ground underneath. 

"So freakin' cool," Texas concludes.  "Old stuff is lame, but come _on!_ These things are freakin’ huge!”

“Oh, yeah.”  Mike looks up and around at the towering, square-edged buildings around them.  They’re cracked and crumbled, almost every window is broken, but they’re still unbelievably huge; ancient behemoths, overgrown with creeping vines and tough, knotty trees.  “…Wow.  I bet this means we’re gettin’ close.”

“Definitely,” says Dutch, and reins Whiptail to a halt, swinging off her back.  “…Sounds like it’s time to get a closer look!”

Julie is already pulling her sleeves up, baring the spells scarred on the backs of her hands.  “Be careful, okay?” she says, and rolls her wrists, letting a slow glow of magic build in the lines of the scars.  “Somebody in there is really strong, and _really_ paranoid.  If they find out we were spying on them, I don’t think they’re going to be happy about it.”

“Hey, they invited us,” says Dutch, and reaches up to pull his shirt off, bundling it up and shoving it in one of his packs.  “They should be expectin’ us to be careful.  If they’re not, that’s on them.”  His tattoos spike like they can feel the sunlight, flowing across his back and chest and arms, sudden sunbursts of bright colors on his dark skin. 

Dutch takes a step back from the other Burners, clearing himself some space, and then he holds up a hand in front of him and the fathomless purple stone on his ring finger lights up like a beacon.   Massive wings unfold behind him, cutting off the fading light through the buildings.  Dutch takes a deep breath, head tipping back, grinning as his wings spread, flap once or twice.  Settle, tucked against his back and stretching up over his head.  Mike breathes too, deep and slow.  His hand rises to his chest again, his lips thin; his expression tightens with something like pain. 

Dutch crouches a little, spreads his wings, gets a running start and then takes off into the air in a rush of cool wind.  He whoops as he gains height, spins once and then settles into an easy, circling flight, high above them.  When he waves down Julie nods, then opens both palms toward him, closes her eyes and brings her hands up to cover them like a kid playing hide-and-go-seek. 

Most illusion spells leave at least a faint, hazy trace behind; Julie’s is the best Mike has ever seen.  One second Dutch is there, circling slowly above them, the next second he’s gone, shimmering away like a mirage.   Julie lowers her hands, and Mike’s chest aches again as her eyes go yellow-green and sharp-pupilled.  Her eyes flicker, following something nobody else can see as Dutch takes off toward the city center on ( _stolen taken not his_ ) wings.

…It’s fine, Mike’s fine.  And if he’s quiet for a while after that, as they group back up and keep riding, it could just be because he’s worried about Dutch.  That would be…normal.  Of him.

This “king” thing has got him so freakin’ on edge.  Mike keeps his eyes open as they ride, his mouth shut, and tries to ignore the feeling of wind against Dutch’s face, the exhilaration of flying.

They pass through hundreds of acres of farmland as they ride, every field surrounded by wards and walls.  Many-tiered gardens built into the hollowed-out fronts of buildings, empty lots turned into broad stretches of waving grain.  There are people working the fields; they stop working as the Burners ride past them, watching warily.  Some of them are missing arms or legs, replaced with battered, utilitarian prostheses.  Most of the ones who are still whole have scars, weapons hanging on their hips or slung over their backs.  And they're all...young.  Nobody looks older than forty.  

"Are those oranges?"  Mike says, peering through one of the shimmering wards.  A structure that looks like it used to be a fountain is sending a gentle spray of mist into the air, over a bunch of wooden frames that glitter faintly with enchantment.  Inside one frame, a grove of trees heavy with fruit waves gently.  The light inside the grove seems brighter and hotter than the watery sunlight they’ve been riding through.  The air ripples faintly like a heat haze.

"Chocolate," Julie points out vaguely, nodding to another stand of low trees hanging with golden-brown pods.  The sky overhead is grey with clouds, but in the trees' neat wooden enclosure there's a pool of golden sunlight, another shimmer of heat-haze.  "I wonder where they got the seeds?  They must have—"

"Who cares?" says Texas, and starts to turn his massive horse toward the asphalt wall.  Behind the farm’s wards, the men and women working the fields immediately straighten up, grimly ready.  Texas doesn't seem to notice.   "Texas wants chocolate!  We should go—"

"We should get to the  _castle,_ " Julie says firmly.  "Where they're probably shipping the chocolate anyway."  

"...Buzz-kill," Texas grumbles, but hurries Stronghorn back up to ride beside the others, casting a longing sort of glance back at the stand of cacao trees.  The farmers relax again, watching the Burners go—Mike waves politely at them, giving an apologetic kind of  _sorry, that's Texas,_ grimace, and one or two of them actually soften enough to wave back, bemused but curious.  

The city they ride through seems almost as scarred as its people.  There are great swathes of buildings that are still coated with ash, burned and blackened, with new, green growth just starting to take over the charred landscape.  Mike goes very, very quiet the first time they cross over into one. 

Texas, apparently not noticing the suddenly tense atmosphere, immediately goes "Oh  _crap_ , you figure there was a dragon here?"

"Texas..." says Julie, pained.  

"Hey, why'd people stop havin' dragons around?  Y'know, you couldn't scratch your butt when Texas was a kid without some king goin'  _hey if you don't quit I'm gonna set you on fire!_   I mean, nobody ever did 'cause nobody wanted  _their_ butt on fire, but—"

"Texas."

"Texas saw a dragon one time, they had all these flags hanging off it and it had this big, spiky collar—"

" _Texas,_ " snaps Julie.  Texas stops, glaring at her, and Julie jerks her head meaningfully over at Mike.  He's staring out over the charred landscape, eyes distant, mouth drawn into a pensive frown.  Texas huffs and shuts up. 

Mike stays quiet as they ride.  He only wakes up, blinking and shaking himself, when the air above them shimmers and a sudden, warm breeze buffets everybody's hair back.  Julie raises both hands, presses her fists together and snaps them apart like she's breaking something; the shimmer in the air sparks and suddenly becomes Dutch, dropping out of the sky and landing deftly on the ground in front of them.  His ring's glow dies away, and he and Mike both breathe out in unison, sharp and soft like dropping a heavy weight.  The huge, scaled wings fold away again, vanishing as Dutch straightens up. 

"We're close!" is the first thing he says—he's grinning uncontrollably, eyes gleaming.  "Oh man, you gotta see the castle, it's  _huge._   I've never seen—it's gotta be fifty stories, at  _least_!"

"Seventy, if it's the same building the Empire used to use," Julie says, and dismounts to dig into Whiptail's bags, throwing Dutch his T-shirt and a warm cloak.  He yanks both on, wraps up in the cloak and shivers. "...You okay?"

"It's  _cold_ up there today," Dutch says.  "No but listen, there's a lot of people in there!  Like, way more than the towns we've been goin' through, the whole city center's got people living in it.  The castle's right on the river, it's—" he waves his hands in the air, shaping images only he can see.  "—There's these four huge towers, and then one in the middle that's even bigger, it's all up on the river and it's got these lights—there's stained glass, they've got banners hanging up, it's just— _wow._ "  He pauses, pulls his hands back into his cloak and shivers some more.  "Hfff.  Man, I gotta get some shirts I can wear while I'm flyin'.  I can't keep freezin' my butt off up there."

"Big Texas has got this," says Texas sanctimoniously, and slides down the side of his massive horse.  "C'mere, skinny."

"Who you callin' 'skinny'?"  

"You," says Texas.  "C'mere." 

Dutch grumbles, but he holds out his hands anyway, spreading his cloak open.  Texas takes a deep breath and then lets it out in a long, rippling stream of dry, scorching air.  It billows Dutch's cloak back, and he shivers one last time in the rush of warmth and then groans and relaxes.  "...You're a life-saver, man."

Texas can’t answer and control the fire at the same time, but he contrives to indicate, by the smugness of his expression and the quirk of one eyebrow, that Dutch should have expected that because Texas is, after all, Texas.  Dutch rolls his eyes, but he definitely looks less chilled when Texas runs out of breath and Dutch wraps up in his cloak again. 

“There’s people comin’ in from all over the city,” he goes on, once he’s back on his horse and they’re moving again.  “They gotta know the roads better than us, they’re taking these tiny alleys and back-roads, they’re all headed for the middle.  I think something’s goin’ on there tonight.”

“Maybe they’re havin’ a party ‘cause Texas is coming!” Texas says.

“I don’t think this is for us.”  Dutch frowns, squinting ahead of them at the dim streets like he’s trying to see through solid stone to the castle he saw from the air.  “The whole city’s packed in there.  You saw all those people out in the farms on the way in, right?  They’re all harvestin’ what they got, taking it in.  I think it’s some kinda holiday!  And—whoa.”

For a second Mike doesn't see why Dutch stopped--then he raises his eyes, following Dutch's gaze up to one of the looming buildings above them.  There's a mural painted on the side of it; nothing complex, just huge, bright red letters, two stories tall.  _COME IN PEACE OR LEAVE IN PIECES._

“…Looks like we’re definitely getting there,” Mike says, and leans back on Mutt’s back to stare up.  “How did they even get up there to paint this stuff?”

“That’s nice as hell!”  Dutch says, and holds up his hands, framing the image between his fingers.  When he pulls his hands away again, beckoning, the painting duplicates itself in the air in front of him, a perfect, miniature snapshot.  Dutch examines it as they ride on, satisfied, then carefully rummages through his bag until he finds an antique watch, ushering the miniature picture into the watch's depths.  "How many of these are there?  I only got room for a couple more pictures in this thing."

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself, bud,” Mike says, half-laughing, and then cranes forward, staring up.  Another mural is coming into view, towering over the deserted road; a ferocious-looking ruby dragon, snarling and drooling flame, with a sword driven through its throat.  Underneath it, somebody has written simply,  _HE SHALL VANQUISH._

Mike stares up at it for a second, then shudders a little bit and keeps riding, shaking his head.  "...geez."

"Can't blame them for being protective," Julie says, voice lowered like the walls might have ears.  "This place has been in everybody's sights ever since the Deluxian Empire left."

"No kidding."  Texas holds up a hand, counting off on his fingers.  "Kane had it, and then like four guys who totally lasted...I dunno, two seconds each, and then it was Mad Dog—" he scowls. "—The whole family packed up and cleared outta there when Mad Dog started settin' fire to stuff.  Jerk."

"And now this guy."  Mike glances back over his shoulder, at the quiet streets behind them.   _HE SHALL VANQUISH._   "...We’ll see.  We’ve turned down big jobs before, we can do it again.”

There’s a faint glow over the skyline as they keep riding—the sun is starting to set, now, and somewhere ahead the city has put its lights on.  As it gets dimmer, lights flicker on by the sides of the empty streets.  The shattered remnants of the old street lights list drunkenly over the road, bent and broken; somebody has hung dim, enchanted lanterns from their dead light sockets.  The Burners ride on, increasingly quiet now, eyes wary on empty buildings and silent sidestreets.

There are more and more murals with every block they ride deeper into Old Detroit.  Warnings, tributes.  A chronicle of Raymanthia’s rise to power.  In a lot of them a figure in a sweeping cloak stands above the chaos, hands spread, a golden crown hovering over his cloaked head.  Sometimes he’s holding a lance, a sword—in one, his hands are raised over his head holding what’s unmistakeably a dragon skull, a sword buried between its empty eye-sockets.  _WYRMSLAYER,_ somebody has written, in dripping blood-red.   _HE SHALL VANQUISH._

They’re just passing under the unseen eyes of that faceless figure when Julie abruptly reins her mare to a halt, tensing.  The other Burners stop, startled; Julie glances back at them and shakes her head, eyes glowing green and slit-pupilled.  She rides forward a cautious step, then another, then stops again, staring around the empty street.  Very slowly, her hand drops down to her boomerang.  

" _...how many?_ "  Mike breathes, barely audible.  Julie ahakes her head.   _Don't know._ Mike's lips thin, and his hand creeps to the hilt of his sword.

"...We know you're there!" he calls into the empty street.  "We're not here for trouble!"

For just a second, it seems like there's not going to be an answer.  Then a voice booms out, echoing from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing off broken glass windows and crumbling walls.  

" _What are your intentions in Raymanthia?!_ "

 Texas immediately reaches for the nunchucks hanging at his hip, fire already flickering behind his bared teeth—Mike holds up a hand.  "...I'm Mike Chilton!" he calls, and spreads his hands wide, empty and nonthreatening.  "These are my Burners.  We heard you needed a hand!"

There's silence for a long second.  Then there’s a flicker, a slow flare of colored light, and the mural starts to shift.  The faceless army gathered around the painted king’s feet start to move, light tracing over them like the edge of fire eating away at paper.  Illusion trails away in plumes like smoke as a squad of men and women in dark armor and ashy-green cloaks step away from the wall, weapons drawn.

Mike keeps his hands at his sides with an effort, fighting off the instinct to draw his sword.  After a long, silent second, a slight figure steps forward from the head of the group and looks Mike up and down.  Mike grins disarmingly and gives a little wave, and behind the soldier's matte-black visor he can hear a faint noise that sounds kind of like a resigned groan.  They raise a hand--slowly, the rest of their soldiers lower their weapons.

“They told us Lord Vanquisher would expect us by nightfall,” Mike says, as mild as he can in the tense silence.  “Sorry for not calling ahead.”

The soldier at the head of the guard pulls off their helmet, tucking it under one arm, and glares at Mike intensely.  She's got large, hard eyes, black and intense, thick brows and a long plait of dark hair.  She's at least a foot shorter than Mike, and she doesn't look any older, but there's no doubt in Mike's mind he's addressing a knight.  Something about the bearing, the scars on the woman's face. 

“Sir Ruby,” she says abruptly.  “Captain of the royal guard.”

“Nice to meet you!”  Mike hesitates for just a second, then breathes out and swings off his horse, patting her side.  He steps forward and offers a hand.  “Mike, like I said.  Uh…”

“Mike _Chilton,_ ” Ruby says, and gives him a very long look.  “…Sir Michael Chilton.  They used to call you the Pale King’s Right Hand.”

Mike isn’t, hasn’t been in a while—not a knight, not—but he doesn’t answer, just holds his hand out and grins.  Ruby frowns at it, then him, then reaches out and takes it, giving it a single firm shake.  

"...The former head of the Alabaster guard,” she says.   “I would have tendered my eagerness to serve with caution, if I stood in your position.  The old capitol being the home of your…former liege.” 

The impartial formality and the reminder make Mike wince, just a little, but he grips her hand hard and refuses to break eye-contact.  Ruby lets go of his hand again, and when she speaks again her voice is just a little bit less cold.  "Is it true you fought a manticore?” she says, and Mike knows whatever test he was up against just now, he passed.

“Enough to make him back off, yeah,” he says mildly.  “Is it true your king knows a spell that’ll kill a thousand men?  It was written on a wall back there.”

Sir Ruby scoffs.  It is a scoff, too, a good old-fashioned _hmph,_ unimpressed.  “Lord Vanquisher only fights when he has to,” she says, momentarily forgetting her formality.  “He’s brave, and smart, and kinder than he should be.  You’ll be lucky if he decides you’re worthy to serve this court tomorrow.”

“Yeah, about that,” Mike says, unintimidated.  “How’s that gonna go?”

Captain Ruby stares at him for a second, eyes narrowed, then says “…that’s up to you.”

“I mean yeah, some of it.”  Mike shrugs.  “Help me out here, captain.”

Captain Ruby purses her lips, unhelpfully blank-faced.  “...Stay there.  Sir Ericsson?”

“Sir.” A mild-faced young man with a mass of untamed red-orange hair steps forward, pushing thick glasses up his nose.   

“You’re in command while I’m gone.”

“Yeah, okay,” says (apparently) Sir Ericsson, and watches as his fellow knight whips around on her heel and marches off down the street, shoulders squared despite her small size.  Mike has to appreciate that kind of self-confidence.  She stands like she’s about a foot and a half taller than she is.  Sir Ericsson watches her go, and then turns back to the Burners and takes his glasses off, sighing, to rub the bridge of his nose.  “…sorry about that,” he says.  “She’s under a lot of stress, y’know…uh…I’m Thurman.”

“Oh man, I was starting to think everybody here did full formal _all the time,_ ” Mike says, relieved, and reaches out a hand to shake.  “Nice to meet you, dude.  I’m Mike.”

There’s a faint chime, carrying in the still evening air.  Thurman and the Burners all look around as Captain Ruby bends over a scrying mirror, already murmuring to whoever is on the other end.  Mike cocks his head to one side, and catches the words _your majesty_ and _claim to have your invitation_.  She’s gotta be talking to the king.  His responses are so faint, even Mike can’t make out a word.

The conversation only lasts a minute or two.  Finally, Ruby gives a single, decisive nod.  “…as you say, my Lord Vanquisher,” she says, louder now, not bothering to lower her voice.  “It shall be done.”

"So we're in!" Texas says.  "BOOM!  Yeah, ain't no king who's gonna say no to  _this,_ hwa-yeah—!"

"You are granted leave of passage by his majesty's  _grace,_ " says Ruby, pointed and cold as forged steel.  "And he makes no judgment and offers no promises until he has spoken to you in person."  

"...And then he's totally gonna say we're in," says Texas.  "—'Cause ain't nobody gonna say no to this."  He flexes a few times, corded muscle working in his bare arms.  Ruby gives him a long, blank look and then turns on her heel, long braid whipping behind her.  

"We will escort you to the castle," she says.  "Follow me."

—

It's not a long walk, compared to the trip into the city, and there's plenty to look at as they go.  Ruby leads them through traps none of them but Julie can see, past illusions and boltholes and painstakingly-maintained defenses.  It's been a long time since Mike was a soldier, but he can recognize the defenses of an army that has taken land and is determined to hold it.  They're surrounded, outnumbered, holding highly-coveted land with half an army at best, but Mike sure as heck wouldn't want to lead an invasion into this city.

The further they go, though, the less traps there are and the more people they see.  People driving horses and mules loaded with goods fall in from sidestreets as the Burners and their escort approach the city's bustling center.  People yell greetings to each other, unload baskets and boxes, wave to Ruby and her guards as they pass.  There are lights everywhere, in every color imaginable—glass, expertly made.  People are up on ladders and boxes, putting up ribbons in red, white and blue.  Setting up stalls and shops on the street.  

It's more people than any of the Burners have been around in a long, long time.  Mike keeps jumping as people brush past him, but his eyes are wide, fixed on the decorations.  Every so often, they pass a mage, obviously in high demand, working simple levitation magic or creating lights.  The city gets more crowded, more prosperous, the closer they get to the river.

And in the center of it all, looming on the ruined skyline of half-crumbled buildings, are the five towers of the castle.  There are banners hung from the towers, waving slowly in the breeze off the river; sky-blue, emblazoned with the symbol of a sword and crossed lightning bolts.  

The castle wall is cobbled together from asphalt, cement, stone, brick—obviously sealed together by magic, textures melting into each other.  It's a formidable construction,  but the towers overhead dwarf it.  Patrolling guards look down at them from the top of the wall as they troop around the perimeter; Mike grins up at the towers as they make their way around, and then looks down and out, distracted, as they come out on the waterfront.  The sun is a faint sliver on the horizon, throwing dying rays of red-gold light across the river and gleaming off the glass windows of the tower.  

“Wow,” Mike says, and tips his head back, enjoying the faint breeze off the river.  “ _Wow!_   That's a heck of a view."

Ruby side-eyes Mike for a second, like she thinks maybe he's being sarcastic—Mike just smiles out at the glowing water, and Ruby huffs a little through her nose and half-smiles.  "Nothing less than the court of Lord Vanquisher deserves," she says.  "Unlike...other monarchs...his majesty appreciates the history of the place he has chosen as his court."  

The gates are as impressive as the wall; wood and iron, with runes of protection and strength worked into the metal.  They're built into the mouth of a construction of ancient glass, glittering in the afternoon light. As imposing as they look, they're not shut.  People are roaming in and out, carrying more goods from the city, bringing out huge trays of what looks like food from the palace kitchens.  A pair of young women wearing the same uniform as Ruby and her guards are sparring in an open ring under the shadow of one huge tower. 

Ruby leads the way confidently into the middle of the courtyard, nodding or waving in response to greetings from all sides, and then turns back to Mike with a flutter of her cloak.  “Stay there,” she says firmly, and heads off toward the front door of the castle itself at a deliberate pace.  Mike watches her go, shakes his head and looks up at the castle again.

“… _Wow._ ”

“How do you even get around a place like this?” Dutch says, and raises his hands again to covertly take a snapshot of the towers, rising high overhead. 

“Oh!  Lord Vanquisher fixed the elevator system,” says Thurman, and grins.  “Everybody else was just using the bottom floors or taking the stairs, but he got all the engineers together and they figured it out and enchanted the ropes and now they’re all working again.  It’s pretty cool, right?”

“It’s _crazy_ cool,” says Dutch.

“It’s not that cool,” says Texas.

“Where’d Ruby go this time?” Mike says, before that can turn into an argument.  “I thought she had the king’s comm.”

“He goes to his rooms after sundown,” Thurman explains.  “To work.  Nobody can call him or come see him there except the Duke, so she’ll just leave him a message and, um.  You’ll probably meet him tomorrow.”

“…nobody seems to want to answer this one,” Julie says, a little wryly, “—but…what’s he actually _like_?”

“Oh, well.”  Thurman kind of jitters in place a little bit, then tries, “…he’s…fair.  Very fair.  Y’know, and really smart.”

“But can he kick a butt.”  Texas grunts as Dutch elbows him.  “Get off!  No but seriously Texas ain’t fightin’ for a king who can’t kick some tail when he’s gotta.”

“Oh, he totally can,” says Thurman quickly, and pushes his glasses up his nose as they start to slip.  “—no, totally, he spars with some of his knights sometimes, and he’s really good.  But he’d rather talk stuff out.  He’s a good guy.”  There’s a hint of something like fondness in his voice, or maybe pride—Mike glances at the other Burners, and relaxes a little bit.  Anybody whose knights talk about them like that can’t be all that bad. 

“…Sounds like the kind of guy I’d like to meet,” Mike says decisively, and glances past Thurman as a door opens in the main castle.  “Captain!  What, uh…what news?”

 “The king will see you tomorrow morning,” says Captain Ruby, and Thurman throws them a grin.  “You’re welcome to find rooms in the palace at his majesty’s charity, or attend the Fourth Night celebrations in the city.”

“Oh jeez, it’s the fourth already?”  Mike says, and then clears his throat as Ruby gives him an unimpressed look.  “I mean, uh…thank you.  Very much.  If we could trouble you to stable our horses, and lead us to lodging, that would be…good.”  He winces as Julie gives a faint, pained groan behind him.  “…Sorry.  I’m out of practice.”

Ruby snorts, but not entirely unkindly.  People appear, apparently out of the woodwork, and lead the Burners’ horses away to the stables by the foot of the castle.  Everybody seems friendly, well-dressed, well-fed and happy to help—another check in favor of this “Vanquisher” guy. 

And then, finally, they’re ushered into a big room with glass windows overlooking the distant river.  There are beds faintly visible in the adjoining rooms, and couches and a fire set up in this one.  The couches are obviously valuable antiques: mismatched and lovingly refurbished, probably made even before the fall.

“Okay, Texas has gotta admit,” says Texas, and flops down on a couch, bouncing a little bit and spreading out in front of the fire.  “These are some good digs.  I could get _used_ to this.”

“Everybody is really nice here,” Julie says,  and eases her pack off her sore shoulders with a grateful sigh, rolling her neck.  “Really _polite_ , though.  Mike, I have to give you a refresher on full formal some time.  That was embarrassing.”

“I’m out of practice, okay?”  Mike drops his pack on the ground and stretches, groaning.  The muscles between his shoulderblades are as tense as ever, knotted and tight. “Man, I can’t believe it’s the fourth of July already!  How did we miss that?”

“Uh, excuse you,” says Dutch.  “Who says we forgot?  We don't all have our heads in the clouds, y'know.”

Mike rolls his eyes and starts unpacking, grinning.  “Whatever, Dutch.”

“ _Whatever, Mike,_ ” Dutch echoes back at him, and throws a pair of socks at his head.  Mike snatches them out of the air and throws them back.  “Nah, I’m kidding.  I had no idea.”

“So what’s the plan for the night?”  Julie says, and carefully pulls her scrying mirror out, setting it on the couch.  “I’m pretty tired, I might just set up my guard-spells on the room and get some sleep.”

“I gotta go stretch my legs,” says Mike immediately.  “See the castle, see the city!  This place used to be a _city,_ before the fall.  I gotta go get a look at that.”

“Well…”  Julie hesitates, then sighs as Mike gives her a hopeful look.  “… _Fine._   But be careful, okay?  We might follow you out in a little while here, once the unpacking is done.  We can’t all own exactly three pairs of clothes and nothing else in the world.”

“Get the right pair of jeans and you could,” Mike says, but pushes himself up anyway.  “I, uh.  I could…help you get unpacked…?” The thought of staying inside any longer tonight is genuinely painful, and maybe Julie can tell because she's already waving him off, laughing.

“We’ll be fine, man,” says Dutch.  “Get out there.  I saw you starin’ around on our way in, I thought you were gonna jump off your horse and take off runnin’.”

“Go start a fight for Texas!” Texas yells from the next room over, and Mike laughs out loud and takes off out the door before anybody can change their minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A Proposal On Draconic Taming, Bonding, and Animadividation Rituals, And Their Validity As Sanctioned Bellicose Arts."  
> \--A rough draft found on the desk in Lord Vanquisher's private study.


	2. Phoenix Feathers, Direwolf Fangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike makes a new friend, goes out on the town, gets in trouble and just generally has a great time. Unfortunately, every night's got to end some time, and he has to be in court tomorrow to meet his new king. But on the bright side, Chuck seems to live in the castle too! So Mike will see him again some time, for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _When last we met I could not control myself_  
>  _I fixed my eyes on the ground_  
>  _My words faltered when you asked where my mind had gone_  
>  _I felt my breath leave me, and you asked what was wrong_  
>  _My dear friend Leslie said "Oh, she's just being Miley."_  
>  _When next we meet, I will redeem myself_  
>  _Until then my heart will not rest, for I cannot wait to see you again._  
>  \-- "I Can't Wait To See You Again", credited 2007 AD to musician and balladeer Miley Cyrus. Translated to appropriate court-formal syntax for royal use by court poet Eleanor Brockett, 207 PC

Mike passes guards once or twice on his way through the tower, silently patrolling.  They look him up and down but don’t try to stop him; apparently Ruby has briefed her troops on the new arrivals.  Mike throws off a salute as each pair of guards gets close, and once or twice he even gets a salute back. 

The hallways are silent, carpeted and dimly-lit; every so often, the rooms on either side have had their walls knocked out to make great, open spaces with windows looking out on the river or the glittering expanse of the city.  Mike lingers at those windows for a long time, just staring, amazed and staggered by the _size_ of everything.  Imagining lights stretching out even further, to the dark silhouettes of buildings on the distant horizon. 

After that, he gets thoroughly distracted riding elevators up and down the tower.  They actually _work_ , it’s amazing, you just get in and press a button and the box carries you up to the top of the tower, or down to the very bottom—like a spell, except nobody has to cast it and it works no matter how many times you do it!  It’s cool as heck. 

Once he finally gets tired of elevators he gets out on a random floor and starts walking, which in retrospect is kind of a mistake.  It doesn’t take him long to get pretty lost, and he’s enjoying the view but he’d enjoy it more if he could find the source of the distant fireworks.  Everything looks grander where he is, more expensive—maybe he’s made his way to the center tower?  So…

There’s a faint sound of foosteps in the hallway ahead of him.  Fabric rustles, feet slide.  Mike’s hand goes immediately, instinctively to his sword, but a second later the source of the sounds slips out of the darkness ahead of him and Mike relaxes again.  It’s just a boy—a young man, really, Mike’s age.  He’s wearing a long, green cloak over a really wrinkly button-up shirt, and when he sees Mike he startles hard and lets out a high-pitched little frightened squeak.

It’s the reaction of a sheltered palace kid, but his hand moves to his side like he expects to find a sword there.  So…some knight’s son, probably.  Mike smiles at him, holds up his hands.  _Look, no weapon._

Nope, nothing.  The kid is still just standing there frozen, staring at him like he thinks Mike won’t see him if he doesn’t move.  Okay.

“Hey,” says Mike, “Fireworks keeping you awake?”

The boy blinks at him, dumbfounded, and then slowly starts to breathe again.  Flicks his hair out of his eyes to stare.

“…Who are you?” He asks, soft and high and halfway to terrified.  He’s fair-skinned like he doesn’t get outside much, but whatever sunlight he has gotten has left him with a liberal speckling of freckles across his cheeks and down his neck.  His eyes are wide and startled and blue, and his hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail but it’s fallen loose enough to almost hide his eyes.  He doesn’t _look_ like somebody whose questions Mike needs to answer, but…no point in not being polite.

“I’m Mike,” says Mike, and starts to hold out a hand.  “Nice to meet—”

“What are you doing here?”  The boy cuts over him.  He actually _steps back_ like he thinks Mike’s outstretched hand is some kind of threat.  Jeez, okay.  Well, Kane has been spreading a _lot_ of rumors about Mike since he left.  Maybe this kid has…heard something?

“Easy, man,” Mike says, and withdraws the hand slowly, keeping both hands in front of him and conspicuously open.  “The king called me.  Heard you needed some help.  Uh...and I'm here because I'm lost.  So.”

The kid’s eyes widen for a second, and then he sighs and slumps.  He’s very tall, but the way he stands makes him look small and tired.  “Oh,” he says, almost sighing.  “—oh.  The Deserter.”

The title still makes Mike wince.  “Sure.  Most people just call me ‘Mike’, but sure.”  It’s kinda weird that this kid knows his title, though, let alone that he seemed to know Mike was on his way.  Mike lowers his hands, looking him up and down again.  “…I didn’t mean to freak you out, dude.  I thought the whole castle knew I was here by now.”

“I have been…uh.  I am not a—I’ve never seen you before,” says the kid, and folds his skinny arms uncomfortably over his chest.  “…your appearance was very startling.  This wing of the castle hosts very few and most of them sleep with sundown.”

“Fair enough, I’m _seriously_ lost,” says Mike mildly, and glances up as, somewhere outside, a crackle of fireworks lights up the sky.  “…Okay, but seriously.  It’s the fireworks, right?  Keeping you awake,” he clarifies, when the kid stares at him in apparent incomprehension. 

“Oh.”  The kid sighs, rubs a hand over his eyes.  “I…yes.  No.  They…offer no assistance.  But I do not sleep well regardless.”

…Wow, nobody will loosen up in this place.  Mike briefly considers trying to match tone, then gives up on that thought almost immediately.  He doesn't need  to make an idiot of himself.  Especially since people here seem to get plenty of practice and Mike hasn’t used court formal in…geez.  Years. 

“Yeah?” he says instead.  “Why not?”

The boy opens his mouth—closes it again, lips twisting into a crooked, nervous line.  He doesn’t want to talk about it.  Okay. 

“Are you okay?” Mike pushes, and the kid blinks through his bangs, like the question is a surprise.  “Is there anything I can do, dude?”

The guy gapes at Mike for another second or two, then shakes his head a little bit.  “…no,” he says, quieter.  “No, it’s…stuff I have to handle on my own.  Um…thanks.” 

Wow, just getting the word "stuff" and a couple of contractions feels like a victory, from this guy.  Mike grins at him encouragingly, and the guy kind of grimaces back.  He looks really nervous, huddling in on himself under his cloak, and Mike…likes him, he seems like a good dude.  His eyes are so big and pale and tired, and when he shifts his weight and his cloak flutters, Mike catches a flash of pale, bare feet.  Something startled and interested flashes through him, a whisper of protective instinct telling him _trust, talk, keep._  

…Mike’s never been one to question his instincts.

“Well if you’re not going to sleep…”  Mike grins and steps in closer.  “…you should put on some shoes and head back out with me.”

“H-head out?”  the kid looks him up and down, eyes very wide, but doesn’t step back.  “Out…where?”

“Out!”  Mike waves an arm at the walls around them, taking in the kingdom with a broad gesture.  “It’s the fourth, dude!  There’s kind of a festival going on out there!  Come on, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“I daresay,” says the kid, and Mike blinks at the tone in his voice, the startled, tense way he draws himself up.  “A great many things beyond what I could—”

“Whoa!  Whoa.”  Mike holds up his hands.  “Dude, did you just go full formal on me?  What did I do?”

The kid blinks, opens his mouth, closes it again.  “…I can’t go out,” he says.  “I can’t.  My duties require—”

“Man, it’s a holiday,” Mike says.  “Screw your _duties,_ you should go out and have some fun!”  And then, because the kid is staring at him like he’s speaking Greek or something, “…you’re not working at this time of night, right?  I heard the king was a good dude, it doesn’t sound like he’s the kinda guy who’d come down on you for going out and getting some fresh air.  Come on!”

“The king—” the guy closes his mouth, opens it again, tries, “…He’s…  Yes, no, I mean, I shouldn’t go out anyway, it could be…what if something happens?”

“I’ll look out for you,” Mike promises.  He’s getting there, he can feel it.  “Dude, live a little!  I swear I’ll keep you safe, okay?  On my sword.  Come on.”

There’s a long, long second where he’s not sure if the boy’s going to bite—then he takes a shaky breath, shakes his head and drags a hand through his hair.  “…Yes,” he says.  “That would be—I mean—y-yeah.  Okay.”

“Awesome!”  Mike beams.  “Great!  Dude, this is going to rule.  Uh—so, like I said, I’m Mike.”

“Oh,” says the kid, and licks his lips, a little bit nervous.  “I’m…  Uh…Ch-chuck.  I’m Chuck.”  He hesitates, and then holds out a hand.  He’s thin and tall and lanky enough Mike was half-expecting delicate nobleman’s hands, but his hands are big and knuckly and have callouses on the palms.  Sword training, maybe.  Mike takes the offered hand and gives it a firm shake. 

“Awesome,” he says again.  “Nice to meet you.”

“Um…yeah.”  Chuck looks slightly startled by the intensity of the greeting—he takes his hand back awkwardly, working it like he’s not familiar with the sensation of a good handshake.  “So…where are we going?”

“Well, it’s your city,” Mike points out. 

“Wh—?”  Chuck blinks, disproportionately startled in Mike’s opinion.  “What?  My—?”

“Uh…yeah?”  Mike smiles, trying to dispel whatever strange tension just crept into the atmosphere.  “You live here.  I just rode in.”

“Oh.”  Chuck relaxes.  “Right.  Uh…I don’t…go out.  Much.  At all.”

“What, never?”

Chuck doesn’t answer, but the way his mouth twists a little at the corner kind of answers that question.  Mike laughs.

“So we’re in the same boat!” he says, and claps a hand on Chuck’s back.  “We can figure this out, dude, I believe in us.”

“Oh, good,” says Chuck faintly, and then stumbles as Mike takes off walking.  “Uh—shoes!  I need shoes.”

“Oh!  Yeah, and I gotta tell my buddies I’m going out.”  Mike reluctantly takes his arm away again.  “You know where the empty rooms out on the South tower are, right?”  And then, not really waiting for an answer, “Cool!  Meet you there.  Unless you’re gonna flake out on me, bro.”

“I’m not— _flake out?_ ”  Chuck sputters.  “I—no?  I’ll be there, okay?”  He hesitates, apparently noticing the way Mike looks around, confused.  “…it’s that way.  Just—here, look, head that way, take the elevator…”

Mike grins and nods through the directions and then jogs off down the hallway, immensely pleased with himself.  He knew that.

The others are still unpacking when Mike gets back, although mostly they seem to be lying around half-napping on the old, squashy furniture in front of the fire.  They wake up a bit when Mike comes bouncing back into the room, though, and watch curiously as he goes tearing through his pack for a clean shirt.  Mike vanishes into the bathroom, does his best to fix his hair and then gets preoccupied for a minute or two trying to find his toothbrush somewhere in his pack.  By the time he comes out, the others are all awake and looking bemused. 

“I’m goin’ out!” Mike explains, in response to the sleepy, startled looks he’s getting.  “I found a guy who says he works here, but he’s never really been out in the city!  He seems cool, we were gonna go take a look around.”  And he’s here, now, Mike can smell him outside the door.  Soap and anxiety and something spicy and carrying that makes Mike’s nose itch.  “Oh hey, come say hi!”

Chuck is standing awkwardly outside when Mike opens the door—he startles, and then startles again, worse, to see all of the other Burners standing behind Mike, staring out at him.

“Oh,” he says faintly.  “Uh…  H-hi.”

There’s a chorus of greetings, and Mike straightens out his new shirt and tucks it neatly into his jeans, twisting and bending to make sure it doesn't pull before backing out of the door to throw an arm around Chuck's shoulders.  Chuck tenses up at the touch, but doesn't pull away.

“This is Chuck,” Mike says.  “He lives here.  Chuck, this is Julie and Texas and Dutch and they’re all, like…ninety and grumpy, so they’re staying in tonight.”  He grins at his friends and then flat-out laughs at the range of expressions he gets in response.  “Come on, guys, don’t tell me you’re tired.”

“We’re tired,” Julie says, and Texas grumbles something defensive about workouts and energy.  “No, Mike, go enjoy yourself.  Take your new friend out for a drink.” 

She makes eye contact with Chuck—there’s a second where Mike feels like something might be kinda going on there, like they’re talking without saying anything.  But then Julie looks back up at him and smiles like everything is cool.  Nothing going on here. 

“A night on the town might do you good before the big day.”

 “Yeah, sure!  I’ll be back before dawn.”

“You’ll be back before midnight,” Julie says firmly.  “You need to be up early tomorrow, cowboy.”

“Yeah yeah,” Mike says, but he’s laughing, pleased like he always is by the old-fashioned nickname.  He likes it when Julie calls him ‘cowboy’, it’s—good.  They’re all good, and he wishes they were going out with him too but…okay!  This is good too, this is cool.  “Come on, dude!  Let’s get out there.”

—

Chuck stays anxious and jumpy all the way through the castle, and when he sees the guards at the gate he almost panics.  Mike has to talk him into walking past them, and Chuck is stiff as a board the whole time, hands held tensely flat at his sides.  The guards just nod at them and step easily aside.

“See, dude?” Mike says in an undertone as they head down the street outside.  “Nothing to worry about, okay?”

“There’s  _everything_ to worry about,” Chuck whispers back, and Mike laughs and pats his back.  “What if they’d stopped us?”

“What if they had?” Mike says, bemused.  “We’re not doing anything wrong.  We’re allowed to go outside.”

“I know, but…”  Chuck glances back up at the castle, shivers and hunches down in his cloak.  “…Never mind.  It’s not—what is that?”

Mike follows his gaze, startled and amused by the sudden change of subject.  “Glassblower,” he says.  “A lot of people bring their stuff outside during festivals, dude, there’s—”

“That’s so  _cool_ ,” says Chuck, and all of a sudden he’s the one taking the lead, pulling Mike behind him.  “Look— _wow._   I’ve seen the stuff from this shop, I’ve never seen her making it!”

Mike laughs, confused but delighted, and lets himself be pulled.  Chuck is tall enough he can crane over the heads of the crowd, and Mike can’t really see the glassblower working anymore but he can see Chuck’s wide-eyed grin and that’s plenty.  

After that, Chuck pulls him from stall to stall—cautiously at first, like he's afraid to be seen, and then more and more excitedly as he goes totally unnoticed.  He lights up at the opportunity to watch mages perform showy spells, to see potters and mechanics at work.  It's like being towed around by a huge, excited kid.  And he... _buys_  things.  Just, all sorts of stuff.  He buys Mike a fresh-baked bun covered in honey, he buys a glass ball from the glassblower, he buys salvaged relics at exorbitant fees, apparently not noticing the way Mike's eyebrows rise at the asking price. 

He's got an endless wallet,  _apparently_ , and he's so giddy he's willing to spend his money on basically anything.  Mike starts reeling him in after a while, half-laughing, turning him away from stands full of sweets and people selling expensive, magically-grown coffee and oranges and chocolate.  Internally, he revises his estimate to  _definitely wealthy, probably noble._   It's kind of bit baffling, watching him easily pull out money that would take Mike months to earn, but watching him geek out over everything he sees is also really fun.  

Mike's halfway through watching Chuck flip through an ancient book on the identification and containment of magical creatures—eyes bright and wide and fascinated, one long finger tracing past faded words—when he realizes, kind of all of a sudden, that he would definitely kiss this guy.  

That's—unexpected, honestly.  Mike likes a lot of people, and likes some of them a whole lot, but it's been a long time since anybody's struck him like that.  Mike considers the feeling absently, and Chuck turns back to him, grinning so wide his eyes crinkle at the corners; points out a passage, gesturing emphatically and talking faster than Mike can really follow.  Something hot and sweet and... _inhuman_ stirs in Mike's chest, instinct he usually tries to ignore.  Mike smiles, nods, tries to press that feeling back down again, but Chuck laughs delightedly and hunches back over his book and—no, nope, he's just cute as hell.  Mike would definitely kiss his face—heck, would kinda like to kiss the rest of him too—

Mike chokes on his own spit a little bit at that thought, and Chuck looks over, concerned, halfway through handing over another handful of money for the book.  "...Mike?"

"I'm good!" Mike says, and clears his throat.  No, okay, maybe he really is just super into somebody, for the first time in a year or two.  That's...fine.  He's fine.  "I'm fine, uh—hey, look, you wanna go get a drink?  There's a bar over there."

"Oh!"  Chuck blinks, and he doesn't look quite as pleased about getting drinks as he did about the rest of the stalls and stands, but he follows Mike hurriedly, drawing his cloak in tight to avoid brushing up against anybody.  "I, um—I don't really—I'm not a—oh, okay, alright, haha, okay—"

It's crowded inside the bar, and Chuck catches Mike's arm as they get inside, pulling him back so Chuck can press up against his side.  Mike grins back at him, holds out an arm like a court gentleman, and Chuck blinks at it and then snorts and takes it.  Mike tries to resist the surge of stupid, protective pride that runs through him as he feels some of the tension go out of Chuck's lanky body.  The instinctive rush of  _he trusts you to keep him safe, protect him, keep him—_ it's stupid, and he's not listening.  Mike likes the guy, and if Chuck's into him he would _totally_ spend some time getting to know him, but Mike's got enough stupid pining to get on with just hanging out with his Burners.  If this does happen, he reminds himself sternly, as Chuck's big, cool hand wraps gently around his wrist, it's going to be just once.  Maybe twice.  Maybe just while they're here, however long that—

...dammit.  Dammit.

Mike untangles himself from Chuck's arm when they get to the bar, firmly ignoring how much he doesn't want to let go.  He does let himself stop and pat Chuck's shoulder before he steps away, if only because Chuck looks  _really_ uncomfortable surrounded by the crowd.  He's drawing himself in close, staring around like he thinks somebody's gonna knife him.  Mike grins at him reassuringly, then makes his way through the people standing around, clearing himself a path to the bartender.

"Hey!  'Scuse me—you make Pheonix Feathers here?”  

The lady nods.  Mike grins, then remembers and turns back to Chuck, who looks kind of somewhere between amazed and terrified.  “You drink, dude?”

Chuck shakes his head mutely.  Mike nods and turns back to the bartender, flicking through his wallet for a couple of ancient coins.  “…And my buddy’s just gonna have a water, thanks.”

“I thought—“ Chuck says, and shrinks a little, pulling himself in tight, as somebody edges past him to get to the bar.  “I, uh, I thought…they didn’t drink.  Where you came from.”

Ouch.  Mike shrugs, tries not to let the sudden pang that went through him show on his face.  “I’m from a lot of places,” he says easily.  “They drank in some of them.”  The bartender pushes a glass across the bar to him.  Mike digs some money out of his wallet—considerably lighter than Chuck’s, geez, how long has it been since they got a job—raises it in a salute, admires the red-orange-gold sparkle for a second and then downs half of it in one gulp.  His throat and chest  _burn_ , and for a second it feels like fire.  Then it dies away again, and he can breathe.  “That’s good stuff,” he says hoarsely—because maybe, just kind of sort of he doesn’t usually chug his drinks.  Not that it has anything to do with the startled, impressed look Chuck gave him, or anything like that.  “Hwff.  That’ll wake you up.”

“What’s in it?” Chuck asks, peering dubiously at Mike’s mug.  And then, a few seconds of explanation later, “…I have no idea what any of that stuff is.”

“You want a sip?”  Mike offers his mug—Chuck glances up at him, down at the glass, back up at him and then presses his lips into a tight line and shakes his head.  Mike laughs.  “It’s cool, dude, it’s an acquired taste.  They burn, if they’re good.”

“Why would you want to drink something that burns?” Chuck says, nose wrinkling, and it’s cute as heck.  Mike just laughs again because he can’t answer truthfully— _I miss when I had fire inside, I miss—_ and throws back another burning gulp.

“So you never go out?” he asks when it wears away again.  Leads the way to a random booth and throws himself down in it, towing Chuck behind him.  “Oh crap, free peanuts!  Nice.” 

“Uh, I…uh, no,” says Chuck.  “I have a lot of work to do.”

Mike waits for him to elaborate on that, but Chuck just pops a complimentary peanut into his mouth and avoids his eyes.  Jeez, is he doing confidential stuff or what? 

He’s about to try to poke a little bit more when Chuck says “…I heard you’ve fought a direwolf.”

Mike blinks at him, and then grins and holds out an arm.  He heals fast, usually without even a  scar, but direwolves are pretty mean.  The enormous bite-mark is pale and shiny on the dark skin of his forearm. 

Chuck stares, wide-eyed.  “ _Wow,_ ” he says, and Mike might preen just a bit because yeah, dang straight. 

“They’re bigger than they look,” he says.  “I swear, that thing was gonna rip my arm off.”

“How did you compensate for their defenses, though?”  Chuck says, and Mike blinks, because the wide-eyed, uncertain look just flickered abruptly away, replaced by intent focus.  “Swords don’t work on direwolves, their fur—”

 _They go down a lot easier when you can breathe fire,_  Mike thinks. “Gotta keep some secrets, buddy,” he says, and grins.  "How'd you hear so much about fighting direwolves?"

"I've got sources," says Chuck, which answers exactly nothing.  He raises an eyebrow through the falling strands of his hair, and Mike laughs as he realizes that was just as unhelpful as his answer.  

"Okay, okay.  Fire, dude.  Mage-fire, gotta be magical or it won't burn them."

"Huh."  Chuck sips his water, fidgets for a minute or two, then admits, "...Mad Dog had some...tamed direwolves, too.  I saw them, I've got some, uh...military training.  And some service.  A couple years, in Mad Dog's army and then...the coup.  That's how I know about..." a broad hand-gesture.  Mike's eyebrows rise.  

"Seriously?"  He doesn't look any older than Mike, how many years can he even have served?  "At your age, dude?  What, were you somebody's squire?"

Chuck's mouth goes kind of tight and crooked.  "...mm," he says.  

"Not—" Mike gets the distinct feeling he might've just put his foot in it.  "...sorry, just—I didn't think other kingdoms started their soldiers that young.  I thought...Deluxe was the only one."

"Well," says Chuck, and his thumb traces back and forth over the rim of the glass of water.  He's not meeting Mike's eyes. "Bardonia needed men, women, but...y'know, there weren't any left.  So we were all kids instead.  _Any boy or girl above fifteen is called to join the fight for the future of our people_.  It's...they were desperate."

Mike takes another drink, absorbing the information.  Chuck is staring distantly down at his water, mind apparently elsewhere, thumb still moving slowly back and forth.  Back and forth.  

"...sorry," says Mike finally, to break the silence.  Chuck blinks and looks up at him, startled.  

"Huh?"

"I'm not gonna lie, I figured you were some kind of nobleman's son," says Mike plainly, and Chuck makes a weird, strangled little noise, sort of like a laugh.  "It's—what I'm used to, what I grew up with.  You don't look like Deluxian security material, so I just kinda thought..."

"Oh," says Chuck.  He looks frankly bewildered.  "Oh, no, no apology is--I mean, it's cool.  I know I'm not...knight-looking.  I'm not a knight, ha, so..."

"I thought you said—"

"Hey."

Mike jumps and immediately reaches for his sword.  Chuck jerks around in his seat, hands rising in front of him with the palms open, like he thinks he's about to get hit.  A group of men is looming over their table, drinks in hand, looking less than friendly and less than sober.  Mike smiles up at them, blank and polite.  They don’t smile back.

“That’s our table,” says the man in the lead—he’s big, bigger than the others, and there’s a knife on his hip.  Shortsword, maybe.  At his size, it’s a fine distinction.

“Mm,” says Mike mildly, and takes a drink.  Doesn’t move.  Chuck scoots just a little bit closer to his shoulder, hands working on his cup of water—the sudden, fierce, territorial voice in the back of Mike’s mind whispers  _protect, defend._

“So  _move,_ ” one of the other men snaps.  “You deaf?”

“I’m in the middle of a drink with my buddy here,” says Mike easily.  “You blind?”

He says it half-laughing, like a joke, but the gang bristles and their leader draws himself up, scowling.  “Move,” he says.  “Or I’m gonna move you.”

“I don’t wanna fight you,” Mike says, even though there’s a nervous energy burning up his spine.  “…settle, dude.”

“You  _settle,_ ” snarls the guy in the lead, and reaches for his knife.  Mike’s hand immediately closes around the hilt of his sword, he feels his smile go tight and fixed as behind his lips his teeth sharpen. 

“Stop!”  Chuck grabs Mike’s arm, tugging at it—his voice is still high and light and hoarse, but there’s a snap of command under it, surprisingly forceful.  “Stop, everybody calm down!  Look, we can go.  I’m not drinking tonight anyway.”

“Whaddya mean,  _calm down_?”  The man turns a ferocious glare in Chuck’s direction—Mike’s teeth grit as Chuck falters, one hand closing tight on Mike’s wrist under the table.  The man with the knife leans in, squinting at Chuck’s face—Chuck’s throat works as he swallows hard, but he raises his chin and doesn’t lean back.  “…I seen you before somewhere?”

“No,” says Chuck coldly.  He's pale under his freckles.  Mike half-expects him to go formal again,  _I regret I find myself unfamiliar_ , but he leaves it at that, shoulders tense and spine very straight. That's downright rude, especially for a palace kid.  Mike is weirdly proud of him.  

“No?”  the guy is grinning.  Mike's hand works on the hilt of his sword.  “Musta been your mom then.”

“What?”  Chuck blinks, startled out of his icy glare.  “Uh—no, my m—”

“Oh, right!” says the guy with the knife, and snaps his fingers.  “—on the corner of the street last night!”  He grins, a vicious mouthful of bared teeth.  “She's gettin' lonely turning tricks by herself.  Wants to know when you’re comin’ back to work.”

Oh,  _okay_. 

Mike is halfway through pushing himself up, smiling hard and tight with all his fangs, when a bolt of bright blue magic burns past his ear and hits the guy in the throat so hard he goes right off his feet.  Mike whips around—Chuck is already standing, one arm outstretched, and the faint pink network of scars on his forearms have turned into a web of intricate runes and sigils, fuming with blue-white magical discharge. 

His eyes are lit up, electric, glowing out from under the shadow of his hair; his face is papery-white with rage, and his mouth is a very thin, crooked line.  He doesn’t say anything—for a second, Mike stares at his face and feels a tight, brief shiver go through his guts.  

And then Chuck falters, looks around at the stares being aimed in his direction, and lowers his hand abruptly.  “— _we should go,_ ” he says, small and tight and panicked.  Mike glances back at him, mouth opened to ask—geez, which question, there are so many—and Chuck grabs his wrist, raises a glowing hand and throws up two walls of semi-solid gleaming blue light that shove the bar patrons out of the way.  He takes off running, dragging Mike behind him with surprising strength, as the other guys stagger back and try to push through the barrier, yelling, vaguely muffled.

“Why are we—running?!”  Mike tugs a little bit—Chuck hisses prohibitively, still trying to run as Mike plants his heels on the street outside the bar.  “We can take ‘em!  You’ve got  _magic—_!”

“Hsssst!”  Chuck goes, yanks again and then groans as somebody inside the bar yells.  There’s a bright, blue-white flash, a noise almost like shattering glass, and Chuck winces as shadows cut off the light from the door.  His barrier is broken.  “We gotta  _go_!” he says again, frantic.  He pulls Mike’s arm one more time, and then makes a terrified whimpering noise, lets go of Mike’s arm, takes a few desperate steps and turns back.  “I can’t—I can’t, I  _can’t_!  We can’t fight, we have to run!”

“But you’re a  _war-mage_ ,” Mike starts, frustrated, and then jumps as Chuck grabs him again and pulls him around, meeting his eyes hard and fierce.

“You have to trust me,” Chuck says, strangled, and squeezes Mike’s shoulders.  “Please.   _Please,_ you don’t understand, I  _can’t get caught out here!_   Mike, I can’t.”

Mike agonizes for another split second, hand clenching on his sword, and then growls, puts his head down and runs.

There are people on their heels immediately, people yelling behind them.  Mike’s whole body prickles with the urge to turn back and fight, but Chuck is still clinging to his hand, dodging and weaving blindly through crowded streets.  Behind them, people are yelling and scattering, and the men who wanted their table are gaining ground, half-gliding over the cracked road on sparking trails of magic, like skaters over a frozen river.  Mike glances back, catches the glint of knives.  

" _Shoot,_ " he growls, and puts on a burst of speed, overtaking Chuck, dragging him along half-stumbling.  "Come on!"

"I'm _trying!_ " Chuck wheezes, and then yelps as Mike turns, yanks him forward by one wrist and scoops him up easily into his arms.  He may be almost human to look at, but he’s still stronger, faster.  He  _runs_ , and Chuck grabs his shoulders, gasps "What the _—_ " and then recovers himself and twists, pressing in close against Mike's chest to reach back over his shoulder.  "Hh—put your head down! _"_

There's a sizzling sound right next to Mike's ear as he ducks his head, and a burst of blinding light throws his shadow out in front of them like a lightning flash.  The men chasing them yell in pain and shock and Chuck goes "ha!" sudden and vicious.

"What—?"

"Blinding spell," Chuck says, and there's another static-ozone shiver in the air as another spell starts to form around his scarred forearms.  "Put me down!"

"But—"

Chuck twists in Mike's arms, throws himself forward out of Mike's grip.  Mike yells, startled, but Chuck just hits the ground and stumbles to his feet, already running.  "Here!" he snaps, "Follow me!"

It's unquestionably an order, and Mike's body moves to obey before he has time to think about it.  He lets himself be pulled around the corner, tugged close against the wall.  Chuck glances back, eyes blazing with magic in the dark, then grabs the front of Mike's shirt unceremoniously and slams him hard against the bricks.  Mike huffs out a winded, startled breath, but Chuck doesn't apologize, just whips his cloak out around both of them and murmurs a word that makes Mike’s spine shudder. 

The world goes distant and blurry as Mike, Chuck and the cloak disappear like they've been wiped out of existence.  Mike feels the prickle of magic against his cheek as a scarred rune on Chuck's forearm flares with magic and then fades, spell discharged. 

He’s not quite fast enough.  The men who were following them skid to a stop at the mouth of the alley, peering suspiciously into the dark.  Chuck stiffens all over as one of them starts cautiously forward, knife raised.  His eyes flicker around the alley, past the place where they stand, invisible.  Mike starts to slide a hand down for the hilt of his sword again, and Chuck shakes his head furiously, silently, presses his forehead against the crumbling brick wall next to Mike’s head and starts to whisper. 

Mike catches the first words— _turn to my bidding and do my will, my rightful—_ but after that it sinks down to inaudibility.  The man looking for them stops, brows furrowing, and shakes his head like a dog trying to shake off water.  There are sparks flickering under Chuck’s bangs, clinging to his eyelashes like static; his whispering gets sharper, fiercer, and Mike catches his breath in a full-body shiver as Chuck’s nails dig into his shoulders through his T-shirt, magic and power layering over his desperate voice like smoke.  The thug’s eyes go distant, like he’s listening too—he raises his knife, very slowly, and slides it back into its sheath.

“…nothing down here,” he says, a little distantly, and turns away.  Chuck’s shoulders slump in relief—he sways forward against Mike, hands shaking now, still murmuring without stopping.  “We’ll find ‘em.  Keep looking!”

The other men turn away at the mouth of the alley and keep running.  The one in the alley with them gives one last half-confused glance over his shoulder, and then takes off after them.

Chuck sucks in air and goes totally limp.  Mike gets an arm around him, keeping him on his feet, and Chuck shivers and gasps and then laughs, cracked and tiny and breathless against Mike’s ear.  His chest is heaving, his face pressed against Mike’s temple as he catches his breath.  They stand there together, motionless except for the rhythm of their breathing, and listen as the sound of yelling fades away.  

Even once the sound is gone, Mike doesn't move.  He stays where he is, breathing slow and hard as the urge to bare his teeth eases.  Focuses on the frantic rhythm of Chuck's heartbeat, thumping against their ribs.  This close together Chuck is a lot taller than he acts, arms pressed against the wall on either side of Mike’s head, leaning over him.  Mike swallows hard, shifts and then takes a very long, very controlled breath and goes still again.  Right.  Right, okay.  The adrenaline rush would have been plenty on its own, super-charging every nerve ending, but with the hot breath brushing his ear and the lean, sturdy body pressed up against his, it's...good.  Intensely good.  Warm, intimate,  _wanted._

__

“… _are they gone?_ ” Chuck whispers, small and breathless and inches from his ear, and Mike jumps. 

“Almost,” he says, and doesn't pull his face away from Chuck's neck.  His lips brush a pounding pulse, his breath flutters soft, golden hair.  Chuck tenses and makes a sweet little startled sound like he didn't notice how close they were until just now. Mike is kind of tipsy, kind of stupid, in a new city ready for something new to start, and he pulls back a little bit and grins up at Chuck in the dark under the cloak.  With Chuck hunched down, their faces are inches apart.  Mike can already imagine what it’ll feel like to kiss him, how he’ll make that startled little yelp and then get into it, maybe put a hand in Mike’s hair—

 “…hey,” Mike says, low and rough.  “You wanna get outta here?”

“I,” says Chuck, and swallows visibly, stares down at Mike’s grinning face.  This close, Mike can see the faint line of a healed scar across the bridge of his nose, cutting through the freckles under one eye.  He could totally reach out and touch— “I, uh, are you…saying— _oh_.”

“Oh?” Mike echoes, a bit more hesitant now.  Chuck doesn’t look disgusted or upset or anything, but he does look  _really_ startled.  Mike’s getting pretty good at reading social situations, he thought… “If you—if you don’t want to, that’s cool too.  Just thought I’d offer.”

“I mean,” Chuck says, and shifts his weight a bit, licks his lips as Mike reaches out and very carefully rests a hand on his hip.  He doesn’t pull away from the touch, but he does shiver all over.  "I mean, I'd...um."  For a second he sways forward, eyes flickering down Mike’s face, back up to his eyes, back down to his lips.

Then, abruptly, he blinks and takes a deep breath.  “Um,” he says again. “I…m-maybe not?  Maybe not tonight?”

That’s pretty definite.  Mike sighs and then pulls his hand away, stepping back.  “Sure,” he says, “Not gonna pretend I’m not disappointed or anything, but.  That’s cool, dude.  I’ll deal.”

“O-oh,” says Chuck again, and he’s turning  _so_ red, pink all the way to the tips of his ears.  “I—sorry?”  And then, faster, more nervous, “—um, and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful, I was—you were very—”

“Nah,” Mike says comfortably, and steps back to bow as gracefully as he ever has, sweep one skinny, red-knuckled hand up and kiss the back of it ostentatiously.  Chuck snorts, goes  _HA_  gross and undignified, and then covers his mouth as Mike bursts out laughing.  “Whenever— _ha,_ whenever your lordship finds it convenient, I await summons.”  He wiggles his eyebrows egregiously, and wins another ludicrous snort.  “…to your  _bedchambers._ ”

“Oh my  _god,_ ” says Chuck, and the awkward tension in the air melts away as he shoves at Mike and laughs, helpless and red-faced.  “Your court formal is  _awful_.”

“You’ll have to teach me some time,” Mike says, and starts back toward the mouth of the alley, peering out and then stepping into the cool night air.  “We’re clear, dude.”

“Thank  _god_ ,” says Chuck fervently, and extricates himself from the cloak.  It shimmers as he smooths it down, and the invisibility spell fades away from it, leaving it faded and green again.  He edges out of the alley cautiously, one hand hovering by his hip like he’s reaching for a sword.  “…I think it’s past midnight.”

Mike groans.  “Already?”

“A while ago.”  Chuck reaches up and runs his fingers through his hair, brushes it back, lets it fall back into his face.  He’s pink-cheeked, hands twitching and picking at his clothes like he can’t figure out what to do with all his extra energy.  “Uh—so.  So we should get back.  Your people are gonna be worried.”

“We’re called the Burners!” says Mike.  Chuck jumps a little bit at the unexpected enthusiasm, but Mike can’t help it.  He jogs to catch up, grinning, as Chuck starts back toward the castle.  The streets have started to empty out, people packing away their wares in the quiet after midnight.  “You should meet ‘em, they’re coming to court with me tomorrow, they’re all great—Julie knows a ton of magic, and Dutch makes stuff, like the people you were watching—Tex is kinda an acquired taste I guess, but he’s a good guy."

“I’m sure I’ll meet them,” says Chuck.  There’s something behind his voice, a kind of tension like there’s something he’s thinking but not saying.  Mike glances over at him, uncertain all of a sudden—Chuck catches the look and smiles at him hastily.  “…I mean, they’ll be asleep by now, right?” he says.  “I don’t want to wake them up, it’s fine.”

“Oh.”  Can’t really argue with that.  Julie probably bullied everybody into bed by now, she always kinda takes the lead whenever the Burners are about to go meet somebody new.  She’s the only one with really good formality training.  So yeah, he can’t really wake them up, no matter how great Mike’s new buddy is.  Mike subsides a bit.  “…yeah, that’s—yeah, okay.  But I gotta introduce you guys later!”

“Sure,” says Chuck, and there’s still something he’s not saying, but he doesn’t sound like he’s just saying it to be nice, either.  “Yes, I will—I-I mean, yeah.”

They walk in comfortable silence for a while after that.  Chuck seems to be doing something magic-related, by the faint ozone prickle in the air and the flickers around his fingers, and Mike strolls along next to him and thinks about stuff.

…Like how he wishes they were headed back to the same place, not to separate rooms, for example. 

It’s just—no, but Mike’s cool with it, seriously, he is.  It's up to Chuck, and he doesn't want to, and that's...fine.  But Mike can't stop thinking maybe if he'd leaned up, if he'd gone for it...maybe it would've gone okay.  Maybe if Mike had made a move, it would have tipped it the other way and he could be pressed up against Chuck again somewhere dark and close, could run his fingers through Chuck’s hair and find out if his lips are as soft as they look—

“How did you get that guy to leave?” he asks, because it’s that or keep thinking about stuff like an idiot.  “I thought we were gonna have to fight for sure.”

“Oh.”  Chuck blinks, distracted from whatever spell he’s working.  “I just…it’s called the free-form model of spellcasting, it’s a different way of doing spells.”  For a second it looks like he’s going to stop there, but a second later the words burst out of him like he can’t contain himself, “—it’s actually really fascinating, just, really cool stuff!  It’s how magical non-humans do spellwork, we think, and people have actually been using techniques like it since before America got colonized, so there’s all sorts of—uh.” 

He falters, eyes flicking to Mike’s confused smile, and then winces away again.  Mike can _see_ the self-consciousness creep up on him, crumpling him in on himself. 

 “…I—I mean,” Chuck starts again, quieter.  “It’s all…magical theory.  So.  Probably would just be really boring.  If I explained it.”

“It sounds pretty cool,” Mike says, not untruthfully.  Even if he wasn’t kinda interested, it makes something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach to see Chuck close back up on himself like that.  For a couple of seconds there he’d been as lit up as he was before, learning stuff, explaining things.  Now he just looks self-conscious and miserable again.  “I wouldn’t’ve asked if I didn’t wanna know, dude.  Just—do me a favor, use small words.”  He grins, and Chuck unfolds a little, smiles back kind of shyly. 

“It’s…so,” he starts, slower and more careful this time.  “…So, um.  How much… _do_ you know about magical--?”

“Basically totally nothing,” says Mike comfortably.  Chuck snorts.

“Okay,” he says, and frowns for a second before he starts, “…but you know how a lot of people need a pattern all set up before they can start doing magic, right?”

Mike let Julie squeeze the heck out of his fingers with one hand while Dutch scarred an illusion spell into the other, so he can pretty comfortably nod to that one.

“You make the pattern, you channel the magic, you get a pre-set response,” Chuck ticks the steps off on his fingers as he says them aloud, and Mike’s eyes catch on the vivid scars across his hands and forearms.  They shift as muscle moves in Chuck’s forearms.  Mike nods again, significantly more distracted, and then notices Chuck watching him and clears his throat, doing his best to focus.  His brain keeps going back to the way they pressed up against each other under the—oh.  Hey, wait, actually.

“Like that invisibility thing,” Mike says.  “I’ve got a friend who uses that one.  That’s one of the pattern spells, right?”

“Uh—yeah!”  Chuck looks frankly startled to have Mike’s participation.  It’s such a good look on him, Mike takes another stab.

“…or…that spell you hit the big guy in the throat with?”

Chuck winces.  “Yyyeah,” he says.  “Uh…yeah.  Sometimes you—need a spell!  Ready!  Before you use it.  Ha.  Um.”

“Makes as much sense as carrying a sword,” Mike says firmly, and Chuck relaxes.  What, did he think Mike was going to judge him for having an attack spell up his sleeve?  This kingdom really is new to mercs.  “But that’s not what you did.”

“Right!  Right, uh—free-form is different.  You just kind of…channel power, and tell it what you want to happen.”

“And…what, that’s it?”  Mike half-laughs, disbelieving.  “Dude, that sounds so much easier!  Why doesn’t everybody just do that?”

“Well,” says Chuck, and Mike has heard that tone of voice from so many instructors and commanding officers in his life, he almost expects it to be followed up with a _stand up straight!_ Or a _stop fidgeting, Chilton!_   “It takes a lot of focus, especially if you’re not used to it, uh, it needs some kind of verbal activation, it uses up a lot of energy, and if you mess it up it can go really _really_ wrong!”  He shudders a little bit.  “Like… _really_ wrong.  If you just do pre-form you don’t have to worry about how much magic you put into a spell, because it only takes a set amount and then you get a set response.  But, uh…you can put as much as you’ve got into free-form.  You could try to make an apple vanish and put too much into the spell and turn your whole house invisible, and then you’d be out of commission for, like, a week.”

“Oh.”  Mike grimaces.  “Yeah, that…yeah, okay.  That’s cool, though!  Never saw that before.”

“Deluxe doesn’t like free-form,” says Chuck shortly.  Mike sees him glance over—he keeps his eyes on the road, lets himself relax and refuses to let it hurt.  Nothing to do with him.

They walk quietly for a while after that.  The castle is visible over the skyline, the only building lit up to the top floors.  Mike watches the banners wave and flutter in the breeze off the river, and lets the silence stretch on.

Chuck is the one who breaks it this time. 

“...I shouldn't have gone out," he says—but not like he really minds.  He just sounds sort of vaguely distracted. "This was a really dumb idea."

"But you had fun," Mike points out.  Chuck ducks his head quickly.  His hair is falling mostly loose around his face now, ponytail unravelling, but Mike catches a flash of one of those crooked smiles.  "Come on, admit it, we had fun."

"Fine, fine," says Chuck, and shoves at Mike's shoulder.  "...sure.  But I shouldn't have gone.  Don't...don’t tell anybody?"

"Uh...okay?"  Mike grins, uncertain.  "It's not like I was going to go around the castle telling everybody I ran into, 'hey, y’met Chuck?  We went and got into a bar fight last night'."

“Yeah—well.  Yeah.”  Chuck laughs a little, but there’s still a note of worry behind it.  “But…promise me.”

Mike thinks about being high-ranking in a strict castle,  about how rumors and insults could make or break somebody’s career.  About how Chuck spends money like a nobleman, knows his way around a battlefield like a soldier. 

“Yeah,” he says.  “I swear.”

Mike may not be a mage, but there’s power in some words, especially for…what he is.  He shivers as the oath flares in his chest, a hot little flash of power.  Chuck shivers too, glances over at him through his bangs and then shakes off whatever he was thinking and keeps walking, craning his neck back to look up at the shape of the castle against the dark sky.

There’s another spell of silence.  Mike settles back into his train of thought, like falling back into a rut.  Thinks about Chuck falling in with their group, close and comfortable and laughing with them.  Sitting around the fire together, everybody close enough to touch—

Geez, Mike was so sure he had that under control now.  _Dammit._

It’s an old, familiar ache, it’s not new.  His eyes catching on Julie’s dark, slick lipstick, Texas’s back and shoulders, Dutch’s graceful hands, he knows this feeling.  And…it’s fine.  As long as he doesn’t do anything about it, as long as he’s not _(greedy, grasping,_ wrong), it’s fine.  No matter how much Mike is electrified and alive right now, no matter how much he wants to pull Chuck into another alley with him, jump off a building, get another drink, start a fight, mantle his wings around them and taste the fire on Chuck’s breath—

Wrong.  Wrong wrong wrong, stupid.  Not even the right species, _stupid._ Nothing is going to happen, and Mike’s just going to have to control himself.  It’s worked fine so far. 

Mike chews on the inside of his cheek as they come up on the gates, and resists the urge to put an arm around Chuck’s shoulders when he edges a little closer to Mike, apparently trying to vanish into Mike’s shadow as they walk past the guards.  It’s not Mike’s job to protect the guy, and it doesn’t matter how warm he makes Mike’s chest feel.  He speeds up a bit, and Chuck lengthens his stride and keeps up easily, occasionally casting worried glances around the courtyard.

Mike falters once they get inside, but Chuck relaxed all over when they came through the door; he takes the lead instead, walking more confidently now.  Occasionally he points out some artifact behind glass or a salvaged piece of art, and Mike nods and smiles without really listening very closely.  The Phoenix Feather and the adrenaline and the stupid, frustrated attraction are all combining behind his ribs into a kind of hot, contained whirlwind.

“…this is my stop.”

Mike blinks.  They’re in a hallway, dimly-lit.  Mike stares around, and then spots a familiar patched section in the wall, an elevator distant down the hallway.  Chuck’s led them back to the hallway they first saw each other.  Chuck steps back away from Mike, backing away down the hall; his spine is very straight, uncomfortable and formal again, but his voice is soft and kind of shaky when he says “Do you remember how to get back to your room?”

Mike does.  And he needs to go, he really should go before he does anything dumb, but he still hesitates for a stupid, long second before he nods. 

Chuck sighs.  “…Look, man,” he says, sudden like he’s been meaning to say it all night.  “I—about earlier, I’m sorry.” 

Mike stares at him, confused and surprised.  Chuck fidgets.

“About…turning you down.”

 “Oh—what?  No, dude.”  Mike claps him on the shoulder, and Chuck jumps and then smiles, uncertain.  “It’s cool, I told you!”

“The staff at the palace are all—really nice,” Chuck says, and fidgets even harder, voice dropping with every word to a self-conscious mumble.  “…you can, uh, you could find somebody, who would—better than me, I mean, you’re very, um.  I’m sure anybody would be…happy to…”

“I wasn’t looking for a one-night stand,” Mike says, a little injured, and Chuck sputters, apparently taken off-guard by Mike’s bluntness. Mike grabs a hold of his hand, gentle enough he can pull away if he wants to, firm enough it’s clear it’s not an accident.  “No, dude, look at me.  I wasn’t just asking because I wanna have sex with somebody.  I like you.  I _really_ like you.”   He smiles, and Chuck stares at him, eyes half-hidden by his hair.

“But…I’m…” Chuck stops for a second, glances down at himself and then back up at Mike.  “You’ve got no idea who I am.”

“I want to, though!” says Mike earnestly.  “And I know you’re…smart.  You’re quick on your feet and you’ve got guts, and you were looking out for me tonight even though you didn’t have to.”  He reaches up, running hot on the energy of the fight they didn’t have, and flicks a lock of blond hair away from those startled, blue-green eyes.  “…you’re pretty great,” he says, and smiles.

“ _Oh,_ ” says Chuck again, small and strangled, and somehow this seems to make him even more uncomfortable than he was before, jittering and drawn in on himself.  He’s very red now.  “Oh, uh, so, well.”

He doesn’t seem to know what he wants to say, and it’s late.  Mike sighs and takes mercy on him.

“…I had fun tonight, dude,” he says, and reaches down to lift one thin, red-knuckled hand.  It’s been a while since he had to bow with any kind of grace, but he makes his best effort as he leans down to kiss the faint spell-scars under Chuck’s freckles.  “Thanks.”

When he pulls back, Chuck is staring at him and chewing on his lip, eyes wide.  Mike smiles at him, suddenly unsure—was that okay?  When Chuck turned him down he figured it was just for the night, not for _everything,_ but Mike’s not great at interpreting what people mean sometimes and—

One big, calloused hand cups Mike’s cheek, turning his face up.  Mike lets himself be pulled, startled, and then catches his breath as Chuck ducks down and drops a chaste kiss on Mike’s lips.

Mike stares at him for about a solid five seconds as Chuck pulls back, pulling his hand in close and stepping away again.  When he finally realizes he’s staring like an idiot and gets some words together, Mike’s voice comes out kind of croaky and breathless.

“Uh,” he says, like a freaking winner.   “Uh?  So.  Maybe I’ll…see you again?”

Chuck licks his lips nervously, which—wow, yeah, okay, maybe if Mike just—if he just reaches out and—

 “…maybe you will,” Chuck says, and he doesn’t sound…entirely happy, like something is eating at him.  But when he smiles it’s a bright little flash of joy on his pale face, eyes crinkling.  “Thanks.  For, uh.  Thanks.”

“You are most welcome,” says Mike, courtly, and grins when that makes Chuck laugh and shake his head, tucking his hair back behind one ear.  “Walk you to your—”

“I can find my way,” Chuck says firmly, and reaches out—hesitates.  Pats Mike on the shoulder once, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to or not.  “Go get some sleep.  It’s almost dawn.” He flicks a hand—a beautiful configuration of gears and turning cogs spins into life on his hand, glimmering as they form out of the air into solid shapes of light.  “…Three hours until court.”  He drops his hand—the magic fades back away, and in the absence of its light he suddenly looks incredibly tired.  “We both need our rest.”

“Both?”  Chuck’s already starting to walk away, holding up a pale pinpoint of conjured light in the dark hallway, but Mike isn’t ready to go yet, doesn’t want this night to be over.  “Will I see you there?”

Chuck looks back and at  him and smiles again, and the bright, pale light he’s holding makes his skin and hair look pure white, his eyes incredibly pale.  Vanishing into the dark like a ghost.

“…you’ll see me,” he promises, and turns away, pulling his dark hood up over his hair and hiding his face in shadows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _For the purpose of this thesis, we will first discuss the classification of several commonly-used magical terms. "Human" being the species and race, "humanity" being the conceptual existence of personality, cognition and empathy associated most commonly with the human race. "Dark" or "evil" magic is defined here as magic cast non-consensually on a subject, causing the enchanted party pain or distress, or reducing their ability to act on their free will._  
>  " _The bellicose arts, which focus entirely on causing mass injury or death, can only be defined in this context as Dark Magic."_  
>  \-- Excerpt from "A Proposal On Draconic Taming, Bonding, And Animadividation, And Their Validity As Sanctioned Bellicose Arts", found crumpled on the floor under the desk of Lord Vanquisher's private study.


	3. Painful Dreams, Knighted Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presenting Lord Vanquisher, wyrmslayer and defender of his people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _The power of a verbal oath has not been fully explored since the reinvigoration of the scientific community after the Fall. The penalty for the forswearing of an oath differs depending on severity of the oath, the identity of the oath-breaker, and the "bad blood" that remains between the oath-breaker and the party the oath was sworn to._  
>  \--"Treatise On Oaths and Vows" by Aleksis Carrino, 75 PC, currently held in the vaults at the University of Michigan

Mike wakes up groggy the next morning, in gray dawn light.  Texas is moving in the other room, yelling and clattering around—Julie is leaning over him, long hair still braided, bare-faced.

“Time to get up,” she mumbles, and yawns cavernously as Mike groans and forces himself to sit up, stretching.  “It’s been so long since I slept in a bed.”  And then, a little wicked, “…so how did it _go_ last night?  When did you get in?”

“It went  _fine,”_ Mike says, “And—I dunno.”  He yawns.  “Like…four?”

“Sounds about right,” Julie sighs, and leans away again.  She pulls the tie off her braid as she heads toward the bathroom, shaking out her waterfall of rich, mahogany-red hair.  “Get yourself presentable, cowboy!  We’ve got places to be!”

Mikes pushes himself up, still yawning, finger-combs his hair into some kind of order and then tugs his pack up into his lap to look for something to wear.  He's only got jeans, which isn't really court-wear, but either Julie's going to have to make them look more presentable with illusions or Lord Vanquisher and his court are just going to have to deal.  He does have a wrinkled button-up, with a spell-circle worked into the tag--Mike's not trained, but he's got enough magic inborn to press a thumb to the circle and activate it.  There's a rush of warm, wet air, and the wrinkles in his shirt flatten out like somebody took a hot iron to them.  

"Not bad," says Dutch approvingly, when Mike emerges from his room in a tucked-in shirt and his cleanest pair of jeans, blinking sleepily.  "Hold still a second."  

Mike holds obediently still as Dutch does what he can with Mike's hair, then takes the wet rag he's given and scrubs off his face.  Dutch has already shaved and trimmed up his hair and sideburns apparently, and Mike takes a razor and vanishes into a bathroom to at least go through the motions.  Humans have to shave, after all.

Texas is armoring up by the time he comes out, hair pulled up into a tight bun on the back of his head.  He's probably been up for a while if Mike knows Texas--his hair looks wet, and the smudge of dirt that's been on his face for the better part of four days is gone.  He's pulling on his boots, straightening his tanktop, buckling on black leather riding armor that's been shined to a glossy finish.  The red flames set into the leather gleam.  

"Hey, Tiny," he says companionably, and Mike bumps shoulders as he walks past, throwing him a grin.  " _Somebody_ had too much fun last night.  When did you get up here?"

"Like, four," says Mike, and buckles his sword-belt on, settling the familiar weight at his hip.  "--And I had a pretty good amount of fun, actually.  More fun than you,  _grandpa Texas._ "

"Okay," says Julie, as Texas draws himself up.  "Okay, everybody line up."  

It's been a while.  The boys groan and dutifully get in line, straightening shirts and cloaks.  Julie crosses her arms and considers them, standing with perfect, trained poise.  God only knows how she manages to keep her shoes perfectly shined or her slacks perfectly pressed when Mike's never seen her doing either of those things on the road, but apparently a former princess has her ways.  

"Bows?" she says.  Mike bows, stifling a grin as he remembers the way Chuck smiled and went pink when Mike kissed his hand.  On either side of him, Texas and Dutch bow too, with varying degrees of elegance.  Mike's never been able to pull off "elegant" like Dutch has, and he's pretty sure he never will.  "Okay, not bad.  What do you call the king?"

"Your Majesty," says Mike immediately.  The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth, too familiar--he grimaces a little.  Julie glances at him, sympathetic, and turns to Texas.  

"Or?"

"Uh," says Texas.  "Sssssire."

"That works," Julie says.  "Dutch?"

"You can just call him by his title too, right?"  

"Good."  Julie snaps her fingers and points at Mike.  "When the king enters court, you...?"

"Kneel."

"Good.  Until?"  Another snap, pointing at Dutch.  

"He...tells you to stop?"

"Good.  We know he has an advisor who's a duke--how do you address a duke?"

"Uh."  Texas blinks, then grins crookedly.  "Your Dukeness."

Julie laughs.  "Your  _Grace,_ " she says.  "Okay.  Mike, we ran over some basic court formal while you were gone, but I know it's not your strong suit so...just try not to talk too much, okay?  If the way this guy runs his court means anything, he's a real stickler for formal."

"Loud and clear, your royal highness," says Mike, and Julie whaps him on the arm.  "Ow!  How am I gonna bow right with a crippled arm, Jules?"

"You're nuts," Julie says affectionately, and Mike laughs.  

"You like me that way," he says, and drops out of line to throw his arms around Dutch and Texas's shoulders.  "Okay guys, this is just another interview for another job.  No pressure."

" _Little_  bit of pressure," Dutch interjects.  Mike laughs and waves him off.

"Let's do this!"

It's a fairly short trip down the tower.  Apparently somebody came by after Mike went out, and gave the other Burners a map.  There's still a dizzying number of floors, and a ridiculous amount of walking to get around one building, but they get there in the end without more than a couple of unnecessary detours.  

The court of Lord Vanquisher is held in the first huge room the Burners walked through, when they came into the palace; the ceiling arches high overhead, gleaming glass, and outside the doors there’s the courtyard, the massive gates and finally the river, bright in the rising sun.  Galleries on either side of the room stretch up toward the ceiling, with banners hanging down from them emblazoned with the sword and lightning bolts.  At the head of it all, looking out over the courtyard and the river, there’s a dais with a heavy chair set on it.  It doesn’t look like the throne of the Deluxian empire—no white stone, no gems.  It's just a chair, carved out of some kind of dark reddish-brown wood, pale inlays of lighter wood polished so brightly it looks almost like marble.  It's pretty breathtaking, all put together.

It's also pretty empty.  Most of the people there are wearing the armor of the royal guard or the cobbled-together finery of somebody who doesn't have to dress up nicely very often--people coming to bring their petitions to the king, if Mike is remembering anything about court right.  There are only a couple of people there who look some kind of noble, and none of them look like a king.  

Here though, like in the farms outside the kingdom, everybody is just really  _young._ Mike was thinking it was weird that Chuck seemed so sure he'd see Mike in court, but looking around most of the people there aren't too much older than Mike is.  Maybe ten or twenty years older, at most.  

...no Chuck, though.

Mike scans the room twice, keeping an eye out for a gangling figure with a head of golden hair--but no, the guy he met last night is nowhere to be seen.  He sounded really sure when he said Mike would see him--maybe he's running late.  Mike sighs and keeps on looking, and a few seconds later his eyes catch on two familiar faces; Ruby and Thurman, standing near the throne dais and looking very neat.  The matte armor and dark, patchy camouflage from last night are gone, replaced by armor that's plain and serviceable and polished to a meticulous shine.  Mike grins at them; Ruby gives him a brief nod and Thurman smiles back and gives a covert thumbs-up.  

People are talking amongst themselves, occasionally throwing curious glances at the Burners.  There's a man standing on the dais by the throne, and for a second Mike falters, not sure if he should be kneeling--but the man's not sitting on the throne, and he's not wearing a crown.  He's turned away, talking to a very tall, curvy woman with dark glasses covering her eyes and a tumble of vividly red-orange curls.  His face is hidden by a mess of brown and gold hair, but he draws the eye even from the opposite end of the throne room; his clothes are bright, eye-searing red and he’s  _dripping_ with golden jewelry.  Jewels and precious metals glint at his wrists, his fingers, his neck.  The cane under his arm is tipped with an enormous, fake-glittery gem, and as he turns back forward the light from the windows glints off a pair of vividly red sunglasses. 

Mike glances back at the others, twitches his head toward the guy and gets a couple of shrugs and a grimace in response.

And then, behind him, the door opens. 

“The king of the realm!”  a herald calls, and all knees bow as somewhere behind Mike, the king enters the room.  Mike bows too, fighting to keep the motion slow and controlled, and hears his friends take a knee behind him.  He feels the breeze as a cloak swishes past him; polished boots flash briefly in his peripheral vision as the man passes him on the way to the throne, covering ground fast in long strides.  “Wyrmslayer and defender of his people, the Lord Vanquisher!”

The boots climb the dais--Mike glances up just enough to see them stop in front of the glittery silver shoes of the man with the red glasses.  There's a murmur of conversation, too soft to catch, and then a voice, light and hoarse and lazy, says "...For his majesty's consideration...the infamous Mike Chilton.  And his  _Burners._ "

A murmur runs around the room.  The spines that aren’t cresting Mike’s spine try to rise as he feels eyes turn to him—it takes years of training and discipline to keep his head down and his eyes respectfully on the ground as the king’s polished boots go quiet and then click back toward him.  Mike takes a deep breath as the feet stop directly in front of him. 

“…Look at me,” says a voice.  Mike immediately moves to follow orders, even as a hot bolt of shock and recognition shoots through every nerve.  He  _knows_ that voice.

The Vanquisher is looking down at him when Mike raises his head to meet his eyes, and his crown is as golden as his hair and his cheeks are freckled and his eyes are wide and blue-green and  _familiar_.

“Rise, Sir Chilton,” says Chuck.

_—_

The audience is fairly straightforward, and Mike’s mind wanders a lot during it.  Mostly to the kid sitting in the throne in front of him.

Lord Vanquisher looks _different,_ on a throne.  He sits with his back ramrod-straight and his shoulders squared and his chin up, and it makes him look about six inches taller than he did last night.  Mike knew he was tall, Chuck had to lean down to— _kiss_ him, the king kissed him, Mike totally hit on the king, holy crap.  He never really took advantage of it, though, never let his height make him imposing or regal.  He definitely does now.

Mike stands at attention, face schooled into well-practiced blankness as his brain spins endlessly behind it.  Chuck called him ‘dude’ and flailed his hands nervously and blushed and stammered.  Lord Vanquisher speaks impeccable court formal, gestures with learned, deliberate grace, his face is still and set and calm.   

…Mike likes Chuck better.

“—Knighthood,” the king says, and Mike blinks and tunes back in.  “For all four of you.”

Behind Mike, Julie makes a very quiet, startled noise.  Dutch huffs out a breath, Texas says “ _Huh?_ ”  Mike just goes still, shoulders tensing.  Processing. 

“I would grant you title,” says the king, and his eyes flicker to Mike, focus on him.  Mike knows that people know, that they've heard his story, that a king would have every reason to be wary of employing him.  It doesn’t make that watchful gaze sting any less.  “For as long as you stayed here,  within our borders, you would be treated with due respect as knights of Raymanthia.”

_Sir Chilton._

It’s been…a long time.  Mike takes a slow, even breath, and tries not to let the offer sway him, influence his choice.  He has a sneaking suspicion it’s not working.  Something bright and hopeful is rising up in him, uncontrollably.

“…I stand willing,” says a soft voice behind him.

Mike jumps, and just barely manages to keep himself from glancing back.  Julie’s voice was very quiet, but very sure. 

“I stand willing,” says Dutch a second later, less sure but louder to make up for it. 

“Texas is in,” says Texas, and then goes “…uh…your kingliness.  Texas stands willing.”

Mike holds in a laugh, but he doesn’t manage to control the broad grin that spreads across his face, the wild feeling behind his ribs.  It’s the feeling of _on the edge, about to fall._ It’s hot and fierce, it _burns_.  Fire in his chest.

“I…stand willing,” he says, and when he looks up the king is watching him intently.  “Our steel is yours to command.”

It’s old, _old_ magic, and he can feel it settle into place as he says the words.  For just a second, he has to fight the urge to shudder.  He meets the king’s eyes squarely and lowers himself to one knee.  Lord Vanquisher stands slowly, drawing his sword with a soft, razor-edged sound that makes every hair on Mike’s neck prickle. 

It's even harder for Mike to stay on his knees with his instincts screaming at him— _run danger tied down snared he could hurt you he could_ kill _you—_ he stays where he is, still as stone.  The king steps off his dais and steps close enough Mike can see the spattering of almost-invisible freckles on his scarred knuckles.

“… _for as long as my commands are worthy,_ ” Lord Vanquisher murmurs, so quietly nobody else can hear.

Mike stares at him for a second, startled by the addition.  The king looks back at him, meeting his eyes with a ready, uncompromising look.  Mike blinks, remembers himself and drops his head, bowing.  Feels a blade rest against his shoulder for a second.  “For as long as your commands are worthy,” he repeats back, barely a breath, and he can almost see Lord Vanquisher smile.

“Very well,” says the king quietly, and for a split second Mike hears the tremor he heard last night.  Then Lord Vanquisher raises his voice, and it’s clear and bright and hard.  “—Then I name you Sir Chilton.  The Smiling Dragon.”

—

Afterward, there’s a dinner.

It’s kind of a party, actually.  The Burners haven't had a party thrown for them in a long, long time, and it’s a novel enough occurrence that even Dutch seems to be enjoying himself.  He’ll probably slip out before the night is over to go paint, but for now he’s in the middle of a little group of Lord Vanquisher’s courtiers, showing off the moving tattoos that spiral vividly over his dark skin.  Julie is flitting from group to group, eyes sharp, with a glass of something alcoholic in her hand that she's always sipping but never seems to actually drink.  Texas is flexing for the guards—Ruby seems just as unimpressed as she did last night, but some of the others seem to be discussing workout tips with him.

Mike stands by the wall, picking at a plate of finger-food and enjoying the sight of his friends finally enjoying themselves.  Mike is...not super comfortable in court, still, and not caught up on court formal, and he has a lot to think about.  But it's cool, the others can enjoy themselves without him!  They don’t get to do stuff like this nearly often enough.  It's great to see them doing what they like to do, appreciated and happy. 

Every so often, a server in neat blue and gold uniform will slide silently up next to Mike and offer a plate with a cheerful “Sir Chilton?”  It hasn’t stopped being kind of weird and kind of amazing.  Mike startles every time.  Sometimes they call him by his new title instead, and it—  And he’s—  It’s weird.  It’s not bad, it’s…dragons have their place in heraldry; power, honor, prestige.  _Powerful knight, valued by the king._ It’s a very lofty title.

It makes Mike’s chest hurt. 

“…Sir Smiling Dragon.”

Speak of the devil.  He barely finished popping the last bite of hors d’ouevres in his mouth, geez.  These guys are quick.

Mike turns, hand half-raised to reach for the tray of whatever it is he’s being offered this time, and then stops and kind of chokes on his bite of cracker at the sight of the king of Raymanthia standing quietly in the nook next to him.

“Uh,” Mike says, and coughs a couple of times, then schools his voice and his expression back to something cool and steady and competent and only a little strangled.  “…Lord Vanquisher.”

The king nods to him, every movement self-conscious and calculated.  Geez, he’s so _tall_ when he’s being king.  He carries himself with so much confidence, it’s enough to make Mike doubt his own memory, wonder if Chuck was an act that Lord Vanquisher put on to test him.  Mike faces straight ahead again, watches the party.

“…We appreciate your generosity,” he says, just feeling it out.  "And your hospitality."

“And we appreciate your bearing and your composure,” says the king mildly.  Mike glances over at him, and…is that a smile?  Just a hint of one, just at the corner of his mouth.  Mike flicks his eyes forward again, and takes a gamble.

“It pleases your majesty to be a jerk,” he says, in his courtliest tone.  “After I bought your majesty a drink and everything.”

There’s a single silent moment where he’s sure he’s messed up really bad this time.  Then, very quietly, he hears a familiar snort of laughter from next to him.  The king is shaking his head, snickering to himself.  “You should have seen your _face,_ ” he says, and Mike is laughing too, now, at his own shock and the ridiculousness of the situation, and at the high, hitching, muffled sound of Lord Vanquisher laughing. 

“Your majesty wounds me deeply,” he says.  “I’ll have to beg your majesty’s pardon for not suspecting your real identity.  Your majesty’s skills of disguise are pretty dang impressive.”

“Ah,” says the king, deadpan.  “Where were you hiding this dazzling gift for court formal last night?”

“Well, I didn’t know you were the king,” Mike says, and sees the king glance at him sharply.  "I--I mean, I was not aware.  Sire."

The king relaxes again, gives a little conciliatory grimace and faces forward again.  "Yes," he says.  "Well, you're not to be faulted for that, I guess."

Now it's Mike's turn to startle.  _I guess_ is definitely not court formal, and Lord Vanquisher isn't the sort of guy who drops that into a sentence on accident.  Mike’s really out of practice with matching tone, but it sounds like the king is intentionally talking down, inviting Mike to use semi-formal with him.  That’s...well.  That's about as weird as dragging your king through a bar-fight and then hitting on him.  Mike keeps his face blank, thinking fast. 

"That's gracious of you," he says, more to fill the space than anything, and the contraction doesn't get as much as a glance.

"Merely reasonable," the king says.  “Men who wear disguises have no business being angered when they’re not recognized.”

“Yeah, for sure,” says Mike, and then clears his throat as the king's mouth twitches, one eyebrow rising in Mike's direction. “…You’re not…I’ve never met a king who acted like you.”

He knows immediately he’s said something wrong.  Lord Vanquisher’s shoulders go tense, his chin rises, his mouth twists bitterly at the corners.  It’s the same reaction as last night at the bar when Mike assumed he couldn’t have served as a fully knighted soldier, and Mike feels the same sinking jolt in the pit of his stomach.  “I mean,” he starts, but Lord Vanquisher is already talking over him.

“You come to us from the kingdom of Deluxe,” he says, very quiet and deliberate, one word at a time. He sounds very cold again, all informality gone from his voice, and Mike resists the urge to groan, internally kicking himself.  “It pains me to be the bearer of bad news, Smiling Dragon, but your experience with monarchy leaves much to be desired.”

The reminder still stings, but Mike can’t deny it either.  “…Sorry,” he says, and bows his head, genuinely apologetic.  “I didn’t mean it like that.  It’s…not a bad thing, not reminding me of…uh, other kings.  That I’ve known.”

Lord Vanquisher relaxes, just slightly.  “Well,” he says.  “Alright then.”

“It's not even a contest, sire,” Mike says earnestly.  Lord Vanquisher softens a little bit more, hands relaxing at his sides.  “I expected--”

“Yes?” Lord Vanquisher says.  He sounds like he’s trying to be casual, but his eyes are fixed abruptly at some point across the room.  "What did you expect, sir?"

Mike opens his mouth, hesitates.  

“…Kane,” he says bluntly, and sees the king flinch, startled by his honesty.  “I was expecting Kane again.  He’s the only king I’ve ever had, sire, what else was I supposed to expect?”

“I—  O-oh,” says the king.  Mike should really feel bad for how stymied the guy looks, but he can’t quite bring himself to.  _What did you expect, sir…_

“I expected..."  Mike shakes his head.  "I figured you'd do whatever you wanted, and everybody else would have to just deal with it.  Kane did a lot of...whippings, throwing people in dungeons for  _public dissension,_ stuff like that. I wasn’t expecting to run across you wandering around the castle barefoot, chatting people up, sire.”

The king’s pale, freckly cheeks abruptly go pink. “I _don’t!_ ” he says, and his voice squawks a little, a familiar echo of last night.  He clears his throat and lowers it again, a fast, embarrassed whisper.  “I don’t, okay?  I stayed and talked to you—in _confidence_ —because you didn’t know who I was.  It’s—it’s nice to be able to just talk sometimes, alright?”  He crosses his arms, shoulders hunching, and for a second he looks more like Chuck than he has all morning, exhausted and anxious.  “…You’re welcome.”

Well now Mike feels like kind of a jerk.  And a bad employee, honestly.  Lord Vanquisher doesn't deserve to be snapped at any more than Chuck did.

“…Sorry,” he says again, because he really is.  “You surprised me, that’s all.”  And then, because the king is _his age,_ because the king blushes when he’s startled, because the king walks barefoot alone at night, he dares to add, “—Does that mean you want me to use common casual with you?  Because I will, if you want me to.  I’m not good at court-form anyway, never was.”  He shrugs.  “So.  If it _pleases_ your majesty…”

The king blinks at him for a split second, wide-eyed.  And then, for the first time since last night, he smiles wide and bright and uninhibited, crooked and not at all kingly.  There’s something about the expression that makes Mike think he doesn’t use it very often, and stupid, fluttery warmth threatens to rise in his chest. 

“…I think I’d like that,” says the Lord Vanquisher quietly.  Then he blinks and hurriedly adds, “If there’s no one around, not—”

“Of course.” Not getting overawed is one thing, but undermining the king's power in front of his subjects would be catastrophically stupid.  “Just between us, dude.”

“ _Dude,_ ” the king repeats, and shakes his head.  He’s still smiling.  “Is it too late to change my mind?”

“Way too late,” says Mike, and the king laughs again—a high, surprisingly wicked snicker of amusement.  “You’re stuck with me.  This is your life now.”

They look out over the party together.  Mike can’t stop stealing glances, recontextualizing the faint lines of scars on Chuck’s face and arms, the shadows under his eyes, every interaction they had last night. 

“…I guess this explains how you knew so much about direwolves,” he says finally.

The king opens his mouth, closes it again, turns a look on Mike that’s so utterly confused he has to laugh.  “Last night!” he clarifies.  “You knew a bunch about how to fight monsters—how to fight, period!  I didn’t know where you got it all from, but I guess I do now.”

“There was a dragon standing between me and the throne,” says Lord Vanquisher dryly.  “One learns one’s—uh.  You figure it out pretty fast, when it’s that or a dragon.”

“Oh yeah!”  And the topic makes the pit of Mike’s stomach twist, but—but he should be interested, any normal person would be interested.  Mike forces himself to smile.  _Normal._ “I heard you.  Uh.  You did that.  Killed a dragon.”

“Mm.”  The Vanquisher glances down at his chest, trails a finger over his silver breastplate.  For the first time, Mike sees the detailing on it; it’s fashioned so the surface is rough, pebbled like scales.  A line of gilded claw-marks runs down the curve of the breastplate, smooth and perfect and gleaming against the silver scale.  “…they made me this right after I took the throne.  _The Wyrmslayer Mail_.”  His mouth twists on the words, almost a grimace.  “…It’s…It’s _not_ my favorite armor.”

"So you hate it.”  It’s weirdly reassuring to think that.  The king glances up at him, eyebrows raised and mouth crimped up in a hilariously dubious frown, and Mike has to laugh.  “—Come on.  Full casual, remember?”

Lord Vanquisher sighs.  “…Yes—  Y-yeah.  Yeah, I know.  I’m just in the habit, okay?"  He looks down at his armor again, picking a nail at the edge of the scales.  "...No, I don't like it.  I have to wear it for special occasions, though.”

Mike nods slowly and watches Texas flip his cloak back, showing off the detailing on his armor.  By the way he’s gesturing, somebody has gotten him started telling stories—by the flush in his cheeks, he’s had a couple of drinks.  Mike’s going to have to wade in and pull him out in a little bit here.  

Some part of Mike wants to push a little more, ask about the dragon, try to figure out--what, if Chuck wanted to do it, if he's proud, if he would do it again?  He's not even sure.

“So,” Mike says instead.  “What are we actually doing for you?  You must've hired us for something, right?”

Lord Vanquisher sighs, twitches a hand like he wants to reach up and rub his eyes and then forces his hand back down to his side.  The more Mike watches him the more he sees the twitches of suppressed actions and reactions, motions stopped and controlled, the ramrod tension of the king’s spine.  He’s as on-edge as somebody in the middle of hostage negotiations, he moves like somebody has hammered lessons on grace and dignity into his head for years on end.  King Abraham—

…Kane never bothered to act like a king was supposed to act.  He just acted like a leader, and people changed their expectations to match him.  His personality didn’t allow for anything less.  But if Chuck really is like Mike saw him last night, enthusiastic and nervous and emotional and anxious, he would…probably have to try a lot harder. 

“…Do I have something on my face, or,” says the king.  Mike shakes his head, then catches the pointed look Lord Vanquisher gives him and looks forward again.  Right, okay.  He was definitely kind of staring.  “I'm just...trying to think.  There’s a lot to do.”

“It’s cool,” Mike says hastily.   “Yeah, I was just wondering.”

“Oh, well thank god it’s cool,” the king says dryly.  “I was worried it wouldn’t be _cool_ with you.”  And then, before Mike can decide how to answer the unexpected sarcasm, "You’ll probably be headed north.  The Bardonian army ran up the river when we finally drove them out.  They keep coming further and further into the borders.  Raiding people, burning farms.”  He says the words bleakly, matter-of-fact.   Mike glances over at him again, careful not to stare, and thinks.   _Boys and girls above fifteen…_ Chuck didn’t say when he started fighting, but Mike has been a soldier and a knight since he was...young, too young.  And he recognizes that exhausted, dulled edge of pain in Chuck's eyes.  "I need them driven out."

"...We can do that," Mike says, and the king glances over at him and smiles again, smaller and softer.  It's a nice enough look, but it's too old for him.  It brings out the shadows under his eyes.  

"I thought you probably could," he says somberly.  "You're a capable dude."

Mike is so startled he laughs out loud.  Lord Vanquisher straightens up abruptly as a few heads turn toward them--Mike stifles the laugh so hastily he kind of chokes, turns it into a self-conscious cough and straightens his back, pretending he's at parade rest.  The heads turn back away again.  

"You're  _really_ bad at decorum," says Lord Vanquisher under his breath. "Like,  _really_ bad."

"I'm doing my best, sire," says Mike, mock-hurt.  "So we're headed out...?"

"The day after tomorrow," says Lord Vanquisher.  "If you can."

"Oh."  Mike--can do that, obviously, that's fine.  There's no reason for the thought of heading back out again so soon to make his heart sink a little bit.  "I...yeah.  Sure, yeah."

"...What," says Lord Vanquisher wryly. "You thought it was gonna just be parties all night, every night?"

Mike almost elbows him in the ribs before he catches himself.  Throws him a look instead.  The king smirks at him, then turns back to the party, looking out.  

"You'll need a way to call back to the capitol and report," he says, and shifts his weight a little, uneasy.  "And, uh.  My wards are very strong, so.  But I want you to be able to call me any time.  Any time you need me.  For a mission."

"Yyyeah," says Mike slowly.  He can't quite gauge what's going on with Lord Vanquisher's face--he's kind of pink, not looking at Mike, shoulders very straight and head held high.  "For the mission, yeah.  Makes sense.  You gotta stay on top of the situation."

"Exactly," says the king.  "Yes, yeah, right.  Uh--here."

He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a bundle of something wrapped in soft green cloth.  He's definitely avoiding Mike's eyes now.  Mike takes it, baffled, and unwraps it carefully.

It's a mirror.  Perfectly preserved, pre-fall glass and some kind of dark frame made out of a substance Mike doesn't recognize.  He's not a mage, but he's spent enough time around Julie to recognize a valuable, high-quality scrying mirror when he sees one.

"Whoa," says Mike, and turns it over carefully in his hands, tracing his fingertips over the designs etched painstakingly into the back of the mirror.  "Dude--  Your majesty, I can't take this.  This is..."

"A gift," says Lord Vanquisher quickly.  "For, uh.  Mm.  In appreciation for...your discretion."

Mike stares at him for a long second, frowning.  Then, abruptly, it clicks and something cold and heavy settles gently into the pit of his stomach.  

"Oh," he says.  "Right.  Yeah, no...no problem."

 _For your discretion._ Oh, Mike knows what that means.   _Thanks for keeping my secrets, here's a little present to help remind you to keep your mouth shut._   It's--and he should have expected this, it was stupid not to, it's not like last night  _meant_ anything.  Heck, he's lucky it didn't, if the king was harsher he could have Mike thrown right back out of his kingdom.  But...dammit, it  _hurts._   Digs into something raw and never-quite-healed in the Mike's chest that says  _you never meant anything, he was using you the whole time._   New king, new kingdom, same old story—

...No. 

"I'm not gonna talk about it to anybody else," Mike says--forces himself to say, pushing through the instinctive throb of old hurt.  "But can... _we_ talk about last night?"

Chuck turns his head for that, staring.  Mike stares back, stubborn, refusing to look away, and Chuck opens his mouth--shuts it again.  For a second, he looks exactly like he did when Mike invited him back to bed last night, startled and confused and more than a little scared.  "What...?" he starts, high and shaky, and then clears his throat and starts again, lower, even.  "What...do you want to talk about?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Lord Vanquisher makes a huffing kind of noise that might be a laugh.  "Why  _would_ I tell you?" he says, and spreads his hands as Mike gives him a look, lips thin.  "Sir Ch--"  Mike just keeps on looking at him, and he relents a bit.  "... _Mike._   You thought I was just--some guy, somebody you could talk to, y'know.  Have....fun with.  I wasn't gonna ruin that."

"I wouldn't've--"  Mike starts, and then stops as Lord Vanquisher pins him with a skeptical stare of his own.  He can't finish what he was saying, it's a blatant lie.  He  _would_ have acted different, if he'd known he was out and about with his future king.  He wouldn't have taken _Lord Vanquisher, Wyrmslayer,_ out to a bar and offered him alcohol, that's for darn sure.  Let alone...  "I'm...sorry for hitting on you, I guess."

"Oh," says Lord Vanquisher, small and brief, and looks away again.  When he tilts his head a little, his hair blocks off his face from Mike, hides his eyes.  His voice sounds strangely quiet.  "...yeah.  You're--it's--forgiven.  It's fine.  You didn't know, uh--so.  You can't be held accountable.  For your actions." 

Geez, just talking about last night has him all pulled in tight again, uncomfortable formality creeping back into his voice.  Mike sighs and gives up.

"You don't have to worry about those guys raiding you anymore," he says.  "We'll beat their butts back to the border for you, easy.  Sounds basically like beating up bandits, and we do plenty of that, believe me."

"I do," says the king, apparently relieved by the change of subject.  "Uh--  So, good.  Like I said, it's...cool, if you want to call me.  Uh, if you need to call me.  Call me."

"You got it, dude," says Mike, and Lord Vanquisher flashes a brief, tight smile at him and turns away, crossing the room in fast, measured strides, cloak billowing out behind him.  Within a minute or two he's surrounded by people, and Mike is still standing there in the corner, staring after him, mirror still held in his hand.

When Julie puts her hand on his shoulder, he just about jumps out of his skin.

"Jules!" he says, and presses a hand to his chest as the awful jolt of adrenaline wears off, breathing hard.  "Whoa!  What?!"

Julie is staring at him, brows furrowed and eyes very intense.  "What do you mean,  _what_?" she says quietly, and glances after the king, down at the mirror, back up at Mike.  "Did you just call the king 'dude'?"

"Uh," says Mike.

"Oh my god," says Julie.  "What--how did you think--no, y'know what?  No.  I can't talk about this here."  She reaches out, picks up an hors d'ouevres from a nearby table and crams it into Mike's hand.  "God, Mike, just--  Stand here and eat that and don't talk to anybody, okay?  We should be winding down here, just--"  She backs away, hands outstretched, like somebody trying to teach a dog to sit.  "Stay there."

Mike stays.

\--

It's mid-afternoon by the time they troop back up to their suite, and Mike is kind of hoping that Julie has stopped being ticked off at him, but as soon as the door closes behind them she turns to him and says " _Mike..._ " 

"He's cool with it!" Mike protests.  "Seriously!"

"What?"  Dutch left the banquet with his hands full of antique relics and trinkets from before the fall, and he looks extremely pleased with himself--his grin falls as he takes in Mike's sheepish expression and Julie's glare.  "What?  What did he do?"

“He called the king  _dude,_ ” Julie says.

“You—what?!”  Dutch fumbles the relic, almost drops it, puts it down with painful care before whipping around to Mike.  “Man, you’re gonna get us exiled!  If we’re  _lucky_!”  He throws a pained look at the room around him, full of ancient treasures.  “—at least gimme like— _two days_ to look at all this stuff before you get us kicked out!”

“He’s not gonna kick us out!”  Mike starts to unbuckle his bracers, not looking anybody in the eye.  "No, we--we talked, he's okay with it!  He's cool."

“Oh  _no_ ,” says Julie slowly.  She sounds like she's stuck between horror, amusement and pity.  “Oh, Cowboy…”

“What?!” 

“You boned!”  Texas announces, furiously impressed.  “You totally boned the king!”

“You _what?!_ ” Dutch repeats, hilariously high-pitched now.  “Mike!”

“I—wh—I did  _not!_ ”  Mike’s voice cracks embarrassingly on the words—he clears his throat and forces it under control again with an effort.  “I didn’t!”

“What happened when you took him out, the first night?”  Julie says, arms crossed and eyes narrow.

“We just—”  Mike starts—and then something clicks in his mind, the memory of Julie glancing between the two of them, the eye-contact she held with Chuck.  Mike’s mouth drops open.  “…you  _knew!_ ”

“Of course I knew!”  Julie reaches up to her throat and flashes the golden-green, fathomless stone hung around her neck.  For a second her eyes are pale and slit-pupilled, and Mike shivers as she uses his stone, his powers.  “He was glamoured the entire time, but you know I see through things.  He didn’t want to be called out, so I let it go—I didn’t think you were going to—”

“I didn’t!”  Mike protests again.  “I—okay, maybe I tried, but he just turned me down.  Just, really nice, but…”

“You tried to bang the king,” Dutch says, despairing, and drags both hands down his face.  "Oh my god.  Mike  _no_."

"I didn't know he was the king!"  Mike protests.  "He's a nice guy!  We had a lot of fun, we didn't--do that, it was just a night out!  Okay?"

"Uh-huh," says Texas, and narrows his eyes at Mike.  "He gave you that mirror thing for havin' a  _fun night out?_ "

"Oh my god," Dutch is still saying to himself, face in his hands.  "Oh my god."

"The king is your  _sugar daddy,_ " Texas says, eyes widening in realization.  Mike sputters, face burning, and Julie's mask of disapproval cracks and she snickers helplessly.  "No hey, he totally--"

"I didn't--we didn't!  We're not!"  Mike says, higher-pitched than he's heard his own voice in a long, long time.  Clears his throat and forces his voice down to an almost-normal level.  "Seriously, quit it!  Guys, come on!"

“I just hope you’re going to be careful about this,” Julie says, and throws her hands in the air.  “We’re still—sit down.  No, right now, Mike.  We’re doing a refresher course on court formal.”

“But—”

“Everybody sit down,” Julie says sternly. The other two boys groan.  “Nope, we’re having a lesson now, _Mike._ ”

Everybody sits.  Mike folds his arms, keenly aware that he’s sulking a little bit (a lot) and not really sure what to do about it.  Julie doesn’t seem to care either way.

“Number one,” she says, “What do you call a king?”

“Oh, come on, Jules—”

“What do you call a king if you want to _keep your job,_ Mike?”  Julie repeats fiercely.  Mike rolls his eyes.

“Whatever they tell you to,” he says rebelliously.  And then finally, cracking under Julie’s glare, “—fine!  'Sire', 'your majesty', or his title.  Okay?  But he said it was fine!  I asked if he was okay with me using full casual with him, and he said okay as long as there aren’t people around.”

“Oh, _nice,_ ” says Texas.  “Cool!  ‘Cause Texas is good at cofo but it’s a pain in the—”

“If you call court formal ‘cofo’, you aren’t good at court formal,” says Julie.  She looks vaguely horrified.  “And no, that doesn’t mean we can all do it!  It’s ridiculous that you asked in the first place, Mike.”

“Hey, what?!  Nuh-uh!”

“Pretend I’m your queen,” says Julie, and straightens her spine, folds her hands behind her back, raises her chin.  Mike, who had been opening his mouth to make a joke, stops.  This is a really stupid time to feel another one of those hot, fiery little jolts in his chest.  _Want, love, protect, mine.  (Hers)_ “Your strength of character and passion for justice is a service to this kingdom, Mike.”

“Oh,” says Mike, and swallows kind of hard.  “Uh.  Thanks.”

Julie’s lips twitch.  She doesn’t answer, just stands there, pointedly silent.  Mike coughs and tries again.

“You…uh.  You do me a great service by your praise,” he tries.  Julie smiles wider, nods a little.

“Works better for a respected peer,” she says.  “Kings don’t do you service, usually.  But yes!  Very good.”

It’s ridiculous, how warm that makes Mike’s chest feel.  He grins, pleased with himself, and Julie smiles back at him and turns to Dutch.

“How dare you speak out of line in my court?” she says, and she’s the queen again, haughty and proud. 

“Oh!”  Dutch blinks, startled, then clears his throat.  “Mmmmy deepest apologies, your majesty, I meant no disrespect.”

“Good,” says Julie.  “Lord Vanquisher doesn’t seem like the _how dare you_ type, but it never hurts to learn a quick apology.  _My deepest apologies, forgive me,_ that kind of thing.  _Please allow me to make amends._ ”

Mike nods distantly.  He can’t stop imagining each phrase in context, saying them to his new king.  _I troubled you, my king, please allow me to make amends…_ pressed up against him under the hot, close air of a cloak…

“ _Mike,_ ” Julie says.  She’s been talking to him, he can almost hear her voice, but he wasn’t paying attention.  “Huh?” he says, and straightens up.  “Wh—?”

“Your turn,” Julie says, with the tone of somebody repeating herself.  “You have to question a king’s plan.  You think it’s dangerous and stupid and you need to suggest changes before somebody gets killed.  Go.”

Mike rubs his temple with the heel of one hand.  He’s…had this conversation before, he knows he has, it’s just been a long, long time.  “Agh…uh, I do…trust in thee, and, and—what, Julie?”

“Wrong form,” Julie says, frowning.  She’s watching him very sharply, lips pinched tight.  “That’s the formal-intimate, Mike, it’s for kings talking to family, I haven’t heard that since—”

Oh. 

Julie seems to realize where she last heard formal-intimate at the same moment Mike does.   She and Mike stare at each other for a second, paralyzed by the shared shock, the unexpected pain—then Julie looks away.  “…you were almost there,” she says, quick and  rough.  “It’s pretty close, just—you can still use ‘you’ and ‘your’, there’s no thee, thine, thou.”

 _…I do trust in thee, Mike, thou art most trustworthy of my court_ —

Mike’s hands are white-knuckled on the couch cushions on either side of him.  Texas glances over at him, frowns and puts a hand on his shoulder—Mike glances up, blinks and forces himself to settle down, to relax. 

“I’m good,” he says.  “I’m fine.”

“…Yeah, you are,” says Dutch firmly, and leans over, pressing his shoulder against Mike’s.  “Uh…it’s more like…’I do trust your majesty’s judgment, but I must speak…honestly…for what I feel to be the good of the kingdom.’  Somethin’ like that?”

“That would work!”  Julie says brightly.  “If you’re going to directly question a king’s order you probably wanna put some apologies in there somewhere, but yeah, that’s good.”

“Hey.”  Texas is still frowning at Mike.  “…you sure you’re good?  You look not good.”

“Yeah, I—yeah, Tex, I’m good.”

“Texas finds himself disposed to doubt that,” says Texas pompously.  “You do the mighty intelligence of _Texas_ a discredit by your pretense, Tiny.”

Mike gapes at him.  Texas stares back at him for a second, then clarifies, “…means you’re lyin’ to me ‘cause you think Texas is dumb, but he _ain’t,_ so start tellin’ the truth!”

“You don’t have to,” Julie says.

“But you can,” Dutch adds.  “I mean.  You’ve been pretty on edge since he knighted you.  It sucks seein’ you like this.  Uh…so if we can help out, man…”

Mike’s chest hurts.  He looks down at his feet, the scuffed toes of his boots, the worn knees of his jeans.  Thinks about polished armor made of magic-bleached steel, gleaming so purely white he could use it as a mirror.  A ceremonial saber hanging on his hip, instead of a battered broadsword.  A stone like fire made solid, clenched in his hand so tight his fingers shook—or maybe that was the cold, settling into his chest like a block of ice where there used to be something warm and bright and alive.

“…somebody in Deluxe used that form with me a couple of times,” says Mike, painfully.  Dutch is looking straight ahead, like he can’t quite look at Mike head-on, but he leans back over, bumps their shoulders and knees together warm and close.  Texas is still watching him, no judgment in his eyes, just watching.  “That’s the last time I used formal with somebody.  I’m…out of practice.  Dunno if I want to be in practice again.  I don’t know.”

“You trust this new king, though,” Julie says.  “You think he’s worth it?”

Mike opens his mouth, shuts it again, rubs a heel on the floor. 

“… _I’ve thought that before,_ ” he says, so quietly he barely hears himself.

“Yeah, but this time you’ve got three other totally smart cool dudes to back you up!” Texas says.  “One in here—” he taps one temple.  “And two right here!” He flexes, muscles shifting and bunching under his tight tanktop.  Mike laughs and looks away as fast as he can, but it’s not fast enough and his face feels stupidly hot as he looks over at Dutch instead. 

“Sorry,” he offers—grins weakly.  “Forgive me, dear friend, I didn’t mean to trouble you?”

“No contractions in court formal,” says Julie gently, and comes over to flop unceremoniously into Mike’s lap.  He huffs in surprise and then wraps an arm around her as her weight almost overbalances, pulling her solidly onto the couch with him.  She settles down into the space between Mike and Texas, cuddles up against his side and bonks her head against his shoulder.  “You’ve got good instincts, Mike.  You should trust them more.”

“And if instinct doesn’t work out, you got us,” Dutch says firmly.

“We’ll keep you in line,” Texas agrees.

“I know,” says Mike, and lets himself be weak, lean his face against her silky hair.  Dutch is leaning against his other shoulder, Texas has got a hand on his back.  Mike closes his eyes.

He must fall asleep there, at least for a little while.  He doesn’t remember drifting off, but next thing he knows somebody is shifting against him, and he’s opening his eyes on dim, still quiet.  Dutch is shifting his weight, making a sleepy sound and reaching up to rub his eyes.

“… _geez,_ ” he murmurs, and on Mike’s other side Texas snorts and jumps, Julie hums softly and shivers, huddling into Mike’s body-heat.  “How long were we out?”

“Probably…a couple of hours?” Mike guesses, and presses his face into Julie’s hair, too sleepy and warm and content to remember why he shouldn’t.  “… _hey, princess._ Time to get up _._ ”

“ _Mm_ ,” says Julie, and snuggles in closer, breathing out against Mike’s throat.  Mike takes a deep breath and lets it out so slowly it shakes. 

“I’m gonna go light some lamps,” says Texas, and pushes himself up lethargically, stretching.  “It’s gettin’ dark up here.”  He huffs out a few breaths, and Mike closes his eyes as he feels the familiar lurch in his chest, the place where there used to be fire aching and throbbing. 

“I’ll get it,” says Julie, sleepy but already moving to get up.  Mike blinks as the ache dies away again, Texas turning back to frown at Julie.  “I’ve got a fire spell, I’ll get them.”

“I _breathe fire,_ Sharon,” says Texas.

“I know, but—”  Julie hesitates a second, then finishes abruptly, “—Mike looks tired.”

For half a second, Mike thinks she knows—has to know, has to have noticed how Texas breathing fire pulls at something indefinable and hurting in Mike’s chest.  But no, no, she can’t know.  They don’t know, they’re still here.  They’re so good to him, they can’t possibly know.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” says Mike, casual as heck.  “Knock yourself out, Tex.”

“Yeah!”  Texas says, and goes bouncing off to huff flame onto the wicks of the lamps around the walls.  Julie glances at Mike and frowns.

“What?” says Mike, a little defensively.

“…nothing,” says Julie, and sighs, rubbing one temple for a second like her head hurts.  She yawns.  “…wwwe…need to go get changed.  Shouldn’t sleep in your court clothes.”

“I know, I know.”  Mike’s shirt is already hopelessly wrinkled again.  He plucks at the fabric, tries to flatten the wrinkles with his palms and then gives up and just starts unbuttoning it, pulling it untucked as he goes.  “Okay.  The king said we’re gonna—mmh—” another yawn.  “…gonna get out of here the day after tomorrow.  Big day tomorrow.”

Slowly, the Burners filter out into their places around the room.  Julie catches Mike’s arm one last time as he throws his shirt over his arm and starts toward his new bedroom.  “Mike,” she says quietly.  “I know you…like this guy.  And he seems nice enough, but—try to forget about last night, okay?  Kings can’t afford to date mercs.”

Mike scowls, tries to resist the sting of resentment that hits him at that thought.  _No, he’s mine._ It’s stupid, he’s stupid, he was stupid for letting himself curl up with his Burners like they were his and he’s stupid for not being able to stop imagining Chuck joining them there, all those long limbs curled up in Mike’s lap, all that tension finally easing out of his tight shoulders as they twine around each other—

“…They can afford to date dashing knights errant though, right?” he says, and he means it to sound like a joke but mostly it sounds kind of pathetically hopeful.  Julie just sighs quietly, leans up on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek, and heads off to bed.

\--

Mike sleeps separate from the other Burners, when he has the chance.  It’s not that he doesn’t want to be near them—he does, all the time, definitely.  He loves his friends, they’re the most important thing—but he isn’t a quiet sleeper, and last time he had one of his…dreams…he woke up to Julie sitting over him, obviously about to reach out and shake him awake.

She says he was talking in his sleep, and the look in her eyes had made his face burn and his gut twist.  He’s never asked her what he was saying, but he doesn’t sleep near the others any more.

He dreams he’s flying, throwing a massive shadow over the ground far, far below.  His whole body is a living whiplash of vivid scale and muscle, strong and lean, and when he opens his mouth and lets out an exhilarated yell it comes out an earth-shaking roar, fire sparking somewhere in his core and boiling the clouds apart.  He spirals down through the scattered wisps of cloud, landing light on his feet.  There’s somebody there, somebody he trusts, somebody he loves.

He bends his head down low, pressing his chin to the ground, bowing, and his king raises a hand and says _Mike_. 

The voice is warped, he doesn’t know who it belongs to—high and shaky, low and commanding.  Is his king tall and lanky, short and broad, what color is his hair?

“I stand willing,” he says, because he desperately wants to serve this man, to do what he says—his king, Mike’s king.  “My steel is your to command.”

 _Prove it,_ says his king, and Mike digs his claws into his chest and _tears_ —

Mike wakes up with a strangled gasp of shock with his sword already halfway drawn, staring around the dark room with wild eyes.  It’s dark, silent, but there’s a dull ringing in his ears that makes him think he might have shouted before he woke up.  There’s nobody there. 

Mike’s chest hurts.  It’s bad tonight, a fierce ache, half physical and half like the feeling of loneliness after months without being touched, like starvation, like sickness.  The skin feels bruised-tender when he brushes his fingers over it, raw to the slightest touch. 

Mike digs his nails into the pain until he has to muffle a groan of agony, until he has an excuse for the way his breath is coming short, the way his eyes and throat burn.  He lies back down, and it still hurts.  Closes his eyes, and it still hurts.  He sleeps.

This time, he doesn’t dream.

\--

Mike is looking forward to seeing the king again, but the first day in the Raymanthian court, Lord Vanquisher is nowhere to be seen.  Instead, the Burners do busywork, unpacking the rest of their stuff, taking a tour of the castle from Sir Ericsson ( _call me Thurman_ ). He's kind of a dork, makes jokes and references that Mike doesn't get, but he's a good guy and he's one of the few people in the castle who seems to be okay with using semi-formal or casual. 

Mike’s starting to put that one together too, the longer he thinks about it.  Now that he’s seen Chuck when he doesn’t have to be king, emotive and anxious and _young,_ now that he’s seen how tightly he’s wrapped himself up in layer after layer of formality and composure, until he’s kingly as heck but barely himself.  There were kids like that in the Alabaster Guard; you went in a boy, but you came out…something else.  A faceless White Knight, loyal above anything else, sworn to the crown of Deluxe.  You put up a kind of…emotional armor, when you went through something like that.  And Chuck’s armor is relentless formality, a chilly distance between himself and anybody who might somehow figure out he’s human on the inside.

…Anybody except Mike, now, apparently.  He’s not 100% sure how he feels about that.  Last time a king chose to open up to Mike, specifically Mike, _you’re not like the others, Mike,_ it didn’t…he didn’t…

Mike has a lot of time to think about it.  The castle is _really_ big.

“This is the gallery!” Thurman says, and waves a gloved hand up at the paintings and captured images hanging on the walls.  Most of them are artists’ impressions—they don’t get Chuck’s face right, give him a noble, square-jawed face and miss something about the shape of his smile, the arch of his nose, his freckles.  Nobody seems interested in the scars on his face and arms, either. 

The only painting that gets it all right is also the biggest painting in the hall, hung up right at the end.  It’s of Lord Vanquisher at the battle where he took his throne, hair loose and face and armor bloody, driving a sword up through the gullet of a roaring, drooling, fiery-mouthed war-dragon.  Mike would almost like that one better if they’d gotten him wrong, but the painter seems to have taken pride in getting every detail.  The spell-scars, picked out with a hair-fine brush in pale blue-white.  The grim, wild look on the king’s painted face, the gash across the bridge of his nose and one cheek.  Muddy and bloody and more real-feeling than any other painting in the gallery.

This one even got his freckles right.  Mike stares up at the picture and feels a familiar little cold shiver down his spine.

 “…We dunno if that’s really how it went,” says Thurman by his shoulder, and Mike jumps.  “Uh, sorry.  This is one of the first paintings somebody made after Lord Vanquisher took the throne, and the Duke had it hung up in here so I guess it’s probably pretty close, but he won’t tell anybody what he saw.”

“What?”  Mike glances over, startled.  “What, you mean he was…there?”

“Yeah, and he says he saw Lord Vanquisher _slay_ it with his own two hands,” says Thurman with relish.  “He won’t tell anybody how, though.  It sounds like it’s some kind of _crazy_ -powerful spell or something.  Some people say his sword is enchanted so it’ll cut through dragon hide.”

“…Right,” says Mike slowly.  “Uh-huh.”

“So where’d all the other dragons go?” Texas contributes, from his place about three feet ahead of their little tour group.  Thurman grins like he was waiting for somebody to ask.

“Nobody really knows,” he says, gleeful.  “…but by the time he’d been king for a year, there were no more war-dragons in the state.  Pretty sure that’s not a coincidence.”

Mike is very quiet after that.  He’s not—it’s not—it’s fine, okay, he just doesn’t have anything to say, it’s not about…

…okay, maybe it’s about the dragon thing.

The thing is, Mike _likes_ Lord Vanquisher, and the new information really shouldn’t affect that at all.  And it doesn’t, not really, because god knows Mike’s aware of how awful dragons are.  Greedy monsters, violent animals.  Kane told him once that if Mike hadn’t changed to a human shape when he was really young, he would probably have gone out to burn his territory into the countryside by now.  “ _Don’t worry,”_ he’d said, and put a hand on Mike’s shoulder.  “ _We’ll bring you up right, here._ ”

Kane lied, lies all the time about everything, but everybody else Mike has ever talked to about it seems to agree.  And heck, Mike’s seen it in himself, no matter how much he wants to deny it.  He’s been trying to control it for years.  How else is he supposed to explain how he feels about _all three_ of his Burners?  (About his new king, no, that can’t be the same thing and even if it was, _no._ )  The nights he’s sat awake obsessing over their next job, if they’d have money (never enough money).  There are nights the Burners go hungry, and Mike catches himself hovering and hunting and worrying about them, too possessive.  Hoarding the money they do make, pinching pennies. 

And this is after giving Kane three different parts of himself, too--Mike can’t imagine if he’d been raised feral.  No wonder people put collars on dragons.  No wonder Lord Vanquisher—

“—ke— _Mike_.  Hey, earth to Mike!”

Dutch’s hand snags the back of his shirt just in time to keep Mike from walking into a wall.  Mike makes an undignified “Wh-huh?” noise and rights himself with difficulty, staring around; Thurman is a little ways down the corridor, talking to another guard earnestly.  The other Burners are all staring at Mike.

“You spaced the heck _out_ ,” says Texas, apparently impressed.  “Man, what happened?”

“Uh.”  Mike blinks, shakes his head.  “…Nothing.  Nothing!  What did I miss?”

“I think Thurman has to go take care of something,” Julie says, and Thurman turns back to them at that moment and waves apologetically, already backing away to follow the woman he was talking to.  “He said he showed us basically all the interesting parts, though.  Were you listening to _anything_ he said?”

“Uh…”  Mike grimaces, and Julie seems to read the answer from his face.  She sighs at him, not unkindly, and cuffs him gently on the shoulder. 

“You know we like you anyway, but you’ve got the attention span of a toddler, Mike.”

“Ha!  I know, I know.”  He can’t help it, his thoughts just bounce all over the place.  At least he doesn’t have to go to classes anymore, school was basically hell.  “Is there somewhere you guys wanna go?”

“Texas wants to go down to the training grounds,” Texas says immediately. 

“I was gonna go see the museum,” says Dutch.  “There’s all sorts of cool stuff down there, I caught a look while we were comin’ in the other night but I gotta see more.”

“Okay.”  Julie turns to Mike, faintly raising her eyebrows through her thick bangs.  “…what do you think?  You up for another lesson?”

“Uh…” Mike hesitates, and Julie laughs. 

“I know you hate it, but you gotta.  Come on, I’ll be fast.”

She grins at him, and Mike crumbles like he always does.  “Sure!” he says, and feels his chest glow warmly at how that makes her smile at him.  “Sounds like…fun.”

“Don’t sound _too_ enthusiastic,” Julie says wryly, and hooks her arm through his.  “We can all walk down together, though.  I’d like to see that courtyard again.”

By the time they get on the elevators and head down toward the base of the main tower, they’re thoroughly entrenched in a debate on what the best hors d’oeuvres were at their knighting ceremony.  They step off the elevator in the middle of a pitched argument, and they’re part of the way down a long, echoing gallery when Mike hears somebody talking, growing rapidly closer.  They sound aggravated, tone clipped and strident in a way that immediately makes Mike think of nobility, and the Burners aren’t doing anything wrong just by walking, but…

Mike’s been a merc for a long time, and on the run for even longer, and he can barely stop himself from reaching slowly for his sword.  He hears the others slow down behind him too, the faint shifting of cloth as their hands reach for their weapons.

And then the source of the noise rounds the corner ahead of them, and Mike realizes why he recognizes the voice.  It's the man from the audience yesterday, the one that stood behind the throne.  He's striding down the hallway toward them, still trailing that silent, blank-faced woman.  He's apparently complaining about something, hands waving animatedly, occasionally swiveling around and walking backwards to gesticulate at her more effectively.  Golden rings and bracelets flash in the light from the glass windows.

Mike glances back--Texas grimaces back at him, shrugs.  Dutch is watching the man with an expression of slightly annoyed confusion on his face.  Julie is watching him like he's some kind of time bomb, eyes narrow and shoulders stiff.  Mike frowns at them for a second, then decides on balance that Julie's guarded suspicion is probably the way to go.  He faces front, forces himself to lower his hand from his sword, and walks resolutely forward. 

The man notices them when they're less than twenty feet apart; he swivels back away from the woman he's walking with, catches sight of them and does an overacted double-take, pulling his glasses down his nose to examine them all.  " _Oh_ ," he says.  "Well well well  _well_ , look at what we've got here.  A pack of  _Burners!_ "

“Your Grace,” says Julie, very evenly.  Mike doesn’t get it for a second—then he remembers.   _His Grace the Duke of Detroit…_ right.  This is the guy who didn’t want them hired. 

The Duke looks from one face to another, and gives Mike in particular a  _really_ nasty grin, all white teeth and spite.  “Hwell,” he says, light and hoarse.  “A pleasure I’m  _sure._   Mr. Chilton.”

 “I think you will find ‘Sir’ a title more fitting,” Julie says, before Mike can even answer that one, and Mike blinks at the full, cold formality of the words.  She sounds every inch the princess she used to be.  “And more appropriate to our current standing.”

“Oh, of course.”  The Duke waves a hand, shooing the point away like an annoying fly.  “ _Sir_ Mike Chilton, the…Smiling Dragon.”  His eyes flick up and down, taking Mike in, assessing and calculating behind his polished, ruby-red glasses.  “…that’s quite a title, Mike.  I can call you Mike, right?” and yet again, bulldozing over any attempt at argument, “—I’m sure you live up to it though.  I’ve got good intuition, Mike, and y’know what it’s telling me about you?”  He spins his cane around his fingers, then points it at Mike’s chest, so sudden Mike almost takes a step back.   His eyes are pale and sharp and burning into Mike, like he can see.  Like he knows.  “—it’s sayin’ _this man’s an animal._   Dragons aren’t beasts to be messed with lightly.”

“It’s a title,” Mike says, very tightly.  “And I’m  _not_ an animal.”

“Figure of speech, Mikey my boy!  Figure of speech.”  The Duke leans back, and the laser-focus is abruptly gone again.  He flips his cane and tucks it back under his arm again.  “…I think we all know what a  _dragon_ looks like.  Ah- _not_ like you.”  He strides forward, forcing the Burners to either step out of the way or be plowed aside, trailing his retainer behind him like a shadow.  “We have places to be.  Welcome to the kingdom, Mr. Chilton!  I’m sure you’ll have a long and  _productive_ career here.”

 “Good day,” says Julie, and the other Burners glance at her and then repeat it, a little late.  Mike doesn’t.  He stares, frowning, as the Duke waves a hand and heads off down the corridor, trailing the woman in sunglasses behind him.  Something is prickling at Mike’s spine, something he hasn’t felt in a long time.  A smell, a feeling—hot metal, something dusty and strange and animal _._    Somewhere gut-deep in Mike it takes a hold of something old and familiar and  _pulls_.  

“…how do you kill a dragon?” he asks, barely hearing his own voice.

“What?”  Julie’s eyes go wide, fixed abruptly on his face.  “Why?”

“You get a bigger dragon!”  Texas says immediately.  “They go out there and you get outta their way and then they have a dragon fight!! And—"

"I'll...catch up with you in the courtyard,“ Mike says distantly, and hurries off after the Duke of Detroit's trailing shadow, barely hearing the others calling after him.

He turns the corner and the Duke is gone.  Mike stares around, frustrated and curious, and then then glances up and down the hallway and leans into the something-other that's always curled up tight in his chest.  He doesn't have his sight, his fire, his wings, but he can still smell.  Can taste the faint trace of magic and burning metal in the air, following it like a hound. 

He climbs and winds through the tower, following the Duke's trail through the ancient hallways, eyes almost closed, moving like a sleepwalker.  Nobody stops him, or questions what he's up to--either there aren't many guards in the high floors of the center tower, or they're really good at knowing when to get out of somebody's way and let them do their own weird thing.  

And then he reaches a crossroads near the top of the tower and stops, stumped.  There are windows at the end of the hallway, re-built into tall glass doors that open onto a makeshift balcony; the breeze whispering in through the open doors muddles the scent, carrying it up and down the hallways, spreading the faint smell in every direction.  Mike is still standing and sniffing the air in the middle of the hallways, keenly aware that he must look like some kind of maniac with a head-cold, when he hears the faint sound of a raised voice. 

Mike creeps closer—it’s definitely the Duke of Detroit.  Mike has only known the man for about a day and a half, now, but that light hoarse voice and affected, dramatic way of speaking are pretty distinctive.  It’s also enough already to make Mike's teeth grind. He’s about to march up to the door and ask for an audience when abruptly the voice rises and he stops instinctively, listening.

 “—Met your  _new hires._ Were you ever planning on, hmm, I don't know,  _sharing_ this cunning little scheme of yours?”

He’s talking about the Burners, he has to be.  Mike hesitates—spying has never been his style—but then another voice answers, softer and lighter, just as familiar.

“We can’t keep doing this without help,” says Lord Vanquisher, and he doesn’t sound like the regal warrior-mage anymore, but he doesn’t sound like… _Chuck_  either.  When Mike first met him, he was cautious and curious, emotive as heck.  Now, he just sounds kind of flat, quiet and unhappy and toneless.  He says the words like he doesn’t expect them to be heard, and sure enough the Duke is already talking again.

“Mmhm, well, I can tell you didn't bother stoppin' to think how it would look, to all those mangy dogs yipping around your borders."

"It doesn't--"

"I’ll tell you how it looks!  It looks  _weak._   Hiring somebody to fight your battles for you—I can almost hear it now, _so it’s true, we have them on the ropes, what a rookie mistake._ You’re not just lookin’ out for yourself any more, you pull stuff like this and your kingdom is gonna pay the price for it!  We’ve talked about this, kid, you remember what I said?”

“…I—I know, what you said," says Lord Vanquisher, even softer now, and Mike can hear a tremor to his voice, barely audible but definitely there.  "I know, but—”

“I told you you’ve gotta _make.  An.  Impression!_ ”  Every word is punctuated by something hard hitting wood, with an echoing clatter.  Mike’s pretty sure he hears a high, scared little noise after the first one, which—okay, that’s kinda not okay, like, at all.  The Duke doesn’t even seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn’t pause his rant.  “You think I got where I am by groveling for  _help_?”

“Our army—“

“Is  _more_ than enough!”  The Duke’s cane slams against something again, brutal punctuation—the king makes another high, startled sound.  Mike edges forward towards the door, one hand instinctively resting on his sword, every muscle tense.  “You think your knights are gonna be happy, having all these nobodies come _swanning in_ and getting titled on their first day?! And going behind the back of your most loyal advisor—”

“Sorry,” Lord Vanquisher mumbles, small and flat and miserable.  “You’re—I shouldn’t have, I know, I’m just…”

Mike’s gut churns, unexpectedly intense, awful.  He hasn’t known the king much longer than he’s known the Duke, but— _Chuck_ , bright-eyed and inquisitive, the guy Mike went out for drinks with, he shouldn’t sound like that.  He didn’t do anything  _wrong!_  

“I know, I  _know._ ”  The Duke sighs, theatrical and overwrought.  “You’re  _scared._   You’ve  _said._   For god’s sake, boy, you’ve got  _me_ on your side _._   What do you possibly have to be afraid of?”

“Nothing, I know, sorry…”

“Oh, stop it,” The Duke growls.  Sighs again, and softens his voice a little.  “…you worry about your…pet project, that spell thing.  I’ll handle this.  But once their contract is up…”

“I—I know.”

Mike steps abruptly away from the door as the Duke’s voice gets closer, still talking—something about  _melodrama_  and  _calm down…_   He can’t be caught listening at the door, but he doesn’t have time to get to either end of the hallway.  He backs up hastily, drops his hand away from his sword and forces himself to stroll casually toward the door just as the Duke bursts through it, still gesturing expansively with his cane.

“—bring everybody in the court down with that sour look on your face—oh!” 

Mike stops, and he doesn’t have to pretend to be startled when the Duke gives him an enormous, fake smile. 

“Mr. Chilton!  Always a pleasure.”  His smile is wide and almost manically bright, but his eyes are very, very cold.  "...what are you doing in the royal suites?  Did I _drop_ something downstairs?"

"…Really bad sense of direction," Mike says, a little absently, and glances past the Duke.  He can see the king, standing inside the door—his shoulders are hunched, his face looks really pale.  He jumps at the sound of Mike’s name, looks up sharply and then goes even paler at the sight of Mike standing there.  His eyes look red, too bright.  Mike’s gut does something twisting and painful and awful.  “Your majesty, are you—”

“We have business to take care of,” the Duke interrupts, and holds out an arm, flinging it around the king’s shoulders, yanking him forward.  Lord Vanquisher stumbles, makes a muffled squeaking noise in his chest and then get his feet under him, letting the Duke drag him along.  He doesn’t meet Mike’s eyes.  “Why don’t you go fight a squire, or whatever you…’knights’…do?”

“Hey, hold on a sec,” Mike starts, nettled—and then stops as the king half-glances back at him and very, very slightly shakes his head. Mike stands there, frozen and frustrated, full of questions, not sure if he’s even allowed to ask.  _How did you kill a dragon?_

…Tame another dragon.

The Duke and Lord Vanquisher are widening the distance between them—going, going, gone.  Mike can’t move to go after them, isn’t even sure he wants to.  Just stares, burning the picture into his brain like it’s important for him to remember.  The Duke, servant in tow, one arm around the king.  Lord Vanquisher’s bowed head, the tense, unhappy set of his shoulders as the Duke talks in his ear. 

\--

Mike finds Julie in the courtyard, watching Texas show off tricks with his nunchucks and do backflips for an interested audience of squires and passing townspeople.  She smiles at him when he shows up, and then promptly stops smiling when she sees the look on his face.

“Mike?  What happened?”

“Uh…”  _Either the king or his advisor is a kept dragon who murders other dragons and the other one is a dragon-slayer who uses him as a weapon and I don’t know which is which_.  “I…I dunno yet.”

“O…kay.”  Julie scoots to one side on the bench she’s sitting on, patting it invitingly, and Mike sinks down onto it and frowns at his feet.  “Is everything okay?”

“I…don’t know that either,” says Mike, a little apologetically, and Julie sighs at him and ruffles up his hair.  “Hey!”

“I’m not going to interrogate you or anything,” she says sternly, and Mike huffs, only sort of a laugh.  “But if there’s anything we can do, you’ll tell us, right?”

“Yes, your majesty,” Mike says dutifully.

“Well _good,_ ” says Julie, with only half a glare for “your majesty”.  “You better!  Now, what would you say if your king asked you on a date?”

She bursts out laughing at the look on his face, and Mike only manages to keep a straight face for a second before he’s laughing too.  It doesn’t quite take the cold weight of worry out of his chest, sitting in the sun and laughing, but…it helps.

It helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We have a bargain. Continue advancing. Will take care of "new problem"."  
> \--Coded message, from the worktable of his grace, the Duke of Detroit


	4. Lonely Kings, Soldiers' Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy king with no father and no friends is as lonely as a dragon without a flight. It's a good thing they've got each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dr. Essa, DMS, BFA, postulates in their thesis work that the post-fall American continents have entered a micro-state of "Cold War", a term coined before the fall to describe a state of geopolitical tension resulting from multiple powers with the means for mutual destruction. The first and second "Cold Wars" were believed to center around a series of increasingly-powerful armaments, now colloquially known as "sun-killers". These weapons, now theorized to be destructive macromagia of a type no longer understood by modern science, were global and large-scale, causing destruction on an inconceivable level. When each ruler controls their own "sun-killer", each local power is paradoxically saved from the possibility of unleashing them. In destruction mutually assured, many kingdoms find destruction mutually averted.
> 
> "The "sun-killers" are long gone, their true nature lost to the fall. Conflict is now localized and, while bloody, involves loss of life only on a scale of hundreds or thousands, rather than hundreds of thousands. The modern "Micro-Cold-War" suggested by Dr. Essa centers around the recent proliferation of more modern weapons of mass destruction; the magical taming and compulsion of _draco dividum_ , or "war dragons"."
> 
> \--Transcript from the presentation of "The Hot War: Post-Fall Dynamics of Combat", a reading at the twenty-fifth biannual conference of magical sciences.

It’s past lunch—fresh sandwiches, fruit from the city farms and some kind of cheese, bread and meat thing that Mike ate about ten of—and Julie has gotten Mike fairly well up to scratch on greetings, goodbyes and polite refusals by the time Thurman reappears, looking very stressed and walking fast at the elbow of the king himself.  There’s a lull in the chatter of the courtyard as people notice them, turning from practice fights, bartering and conversation to bow respectfully as his majesty walks by.  Lord Vanquisher acknowledges the greeting with a distracted wave, then stops and turns back to answer whatever Thurman is saying to him. 

Mike pauses in the middle of a sentence, distracted, eyes catching on the unexpected breadth of the king’s shoulders, the way the immaculate dress shirt he’s wearing stretches across his chest.  He’s not wearing the armor he wore for court yesterday, but he _is_ wearing a pair of neat black slacks that somebody obviously tailored for him.  They make his legs look obscenely long.  Mike's eyes trace the lines of those legs, pause appreciatively on the sword at Lord Vanquisher's side, take in his rolled up sleeves and the wiry muscles in his forearms.

"Pick your jaw up off the floor, Cowboy," Julie murmurs, and nudges him in the ribs.  " _Mike._   You're staring."

"...'m not staring," Mike mutters back absently, and stares harder as Lord Vanquisher flicks his head, tossing his hair absentmindedly out of his eyes.  For a second, the pale, freckled column of his throat is bare. God.

"Oh, Mike,"  Julie sighs, and steps on his foot, hard.

Mike jumps, barely stifling a yelp, and glares at her.  Julie stares back and sticks her tongue out, then faces forward again, poker-faced.  Mike frowns at her for a few more seconds, then defiantly goes straight back to staring.

...Once he looks past the slim legs and the broad shoulders, the king actually...doesn't look so good.  Under his bangs, his eyes look red and roughly shadowed.  His face is drawn, like he hasn't had enough food or sleep in a while.  Mike knows that look on his face—distant, unhappy, preoccupied with what feels like an impossible amount of work.  When Mike feels like that, he has the freedom to saddle up and go out riding for an hour or two—

...hm.

"Don't wait up," Mike says abruptly, and hurries forward, ignoring the way Julie hisses his name and grasps at his shoulder.  He'll apologize later.  He just had a  _great_ idea.  

Lord Vanquisher doesn't seem to notice him as he jogs up, and for a second Mike is distantly concerned for his safety, that somebody could just come up behind him and hurt him.  He's about to reach out, tap the king on the shoulder to get his attention maybe, when the air around his hand seems to get abruptly thicker, harder to move through, and the king jumps like somebody just whispered in his ear.  He turns, eyes wide and hand rising to his sword, then blinks when he sees Mike.  

"Sir," he says, and his voice sounds rough, hoarse and quiet.  “Your presence is appreciated, but you would do better to approach your monarch from the front.  In the interest of maintaining your current state of health.”  His hand rests pointedly on the hilt of his sword. Mike frowns, startled by the full formal—then the king meets his eyes and glances meaningfully around the courtyard.  Right, right.  Somebody could hear them. 

“Your Majesty,” Mike says carefully, and Lord Vanquisher gives him a look that seems half amused, half reproachful.  No, okay, Julie _just_ went over this with him, he can do this.  “May I speak to you in confidence?”

Lord Vanquisher raises an eyebrow at him, half-hidden by his hair, mouth thin.  Mike just looks back at him steadily, and after a second the king breathes out through his nose, disapproving expression falling a little.  “…Of course,” he says, soft and ragged, and raises his left hand.  His sleeve falls back a little and Mike, watching with bemused interest, sees a livid red scar in the shape of a symbol he doesn’t know, cut into the underside of the king’s wrist in sharp, precise lines.  It lights up from the inside and blue light spins out from the palm of Chuck’s hand and solidifies in the air around them like a wall of frozen light.  Mike has a second to stare at the dome of magic over and around them before the king snaps his fingers and the spell disconnects from him, fading to the faintest shimmer.  Sound filters through very faintly from the outside, muffled and warped.

“…I was just gonna go over there,” Mike says, half-laughing, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder to an abandoned corner of the courtyard.  “Y’know, us poor normal folks, getting by without magic.  Dang, though!  How many spells have you got up your sleeves, dude?”

The king blinks, apparently startled by the sudden change from appropriate formality to…Mike…and then gathers himself a little, clears his throat.  “I was kind of _busy_ ,” he says, instead of answering the question.  “Do you actually want something?”

“Yeah, actually, I totally do!”  Mike grins, reminded, and leans in a little, lowering his voice despite the barrier around them.  “—you should come riding with me.”

The king stares at him for a full five seconds, expression frozen, lips pressed tight.  Mike waits, still smiling.

“I…can’t.  Uh, I can’t do that,” says Lord Vanquisher, kind of hastily, too late.  He’s doing that thing again, his voice is flat and quiet.  “I’m…really busy, like I said.”

“It’s always worth the time to go out and clear your head,” Mike presses.  “Look, I know the Duke chewed you out, okay?  I…I heard him yelling.  I mean—even if he was right, which I’m pretty sure he’s not, he was being a total jerk.  I don’t care if you’re tough, even if you’re a king that’s still gotta suck.  You need to get away for a while, you look rough as heck.”

The king goes “…mm.”  Like he doesn’t want to agree, but he can’t disagree either.  His expression crumpled a little bit at the reminder of the Duke’s rant, and Mike feels bad but also this kinda just proves his point. 

“Get away for a little while,” he repeats, coaxing.  “Come on.  I got you back safe last time, remember?”

“I…do.  Remember last time,” says Lord Vanquisher, really carefully.  “I, um.  I was.  Uh.  That was a very—mm.”

Oh shoot, last time, like, “last time” when Mike got him in a fight with some drunk thugs, then kissed him in an alley and tried to hit on him.  Which, that was _amazing,_ Mike had so much fun that night, but, uh.  Awkward.  Mike soldiers on, refusing to let it burst his bubble.  “What was Thurman talking to you about?  Is it invasion stuff?  It looked like bad news.  Actually wait—you can brief me while we’re out riding.”

“I can brief you right here,” says Lord Vanquisher.

“Not if I’m out riding.”

“ _Mike…_ ”  the king looks honestly pained.  Mike feels like kind of a jerk for laughing, but a second later Lord Vanquisher sighs, shakes his head and says, “…okay.  Okay, you complete madman, _fine._ ”

“Yeah!”  Mike almost puts an arm around his shoulders, then remembers—people might not be able to hear, but they can _definitely_ see.  He clears his throat, turns the arm movement into a bow.  “…To the stables?”

“I hate you,” says Lord Vanquisher mildly, and leads the way, banishing the field of silence with a flick of his wrist.

The castle stables are fuller than the castle itself, and the horses inside are sleeker and neater than most of the people in the kingdom.  Mutt is in a broad stable near the front, chewing a little morosely on some oats—she perks up immediately when she sees Mike, nickers and comes trotting up to her stable door eagerly.

“Hey, girl!”  Mike leans over the wall to pet the side of her neck—he didn’t get down to see her yesterday, but somebody has definitely taken the time to brush her for him today.  Mike turns back to the king, who’s hanging out near the door, looking uncomfortable.  “Hey!  Come meet my pretty lady.”

“Sir Chilton,” says the king.  “That is a horse.”

“I know dude, come on.”  Mike beckons.  “This is Mutt.  I call her Mutt ‘cause she’s a mutt.”

“Oh,” says Lord Vanquisher, and eyes Mutt like he thinks she’s probably going to explode if he gets within ten feet of her.  “That’s a…weird name for a horse.”

“Why does everybody say it’s so weird?”  Mike protests, and pats Mutt’s nose as she lips insistently at his cheek.  “I know, girl, I know!  You’re tired of bein’ cooped up, right?  Hey, so this is Chuck.”

“It certainly is not,” says Lord Vanquisher.

“Aw, come on, sire.”

“It’s—I’m not a—” the king sputters a little bit, then finishes, more firmly, “…it’s indecorous.”

“What, like me using casual with you is _indecorous_?”  Mike grins, and Lord Vanquisher huffs.  “Come on, that’s your name, right?  Charles something something something, Lord Vanquisher and stuff.”

“Oh, absolutely,” says Lord Vanquisher, very dryly, “Yeah that’s my name, you got it.”

“Cool!” Mike says, ignoring the heck out of that sarcasm, and turns back to pick up his tack, hung neatly near the door.  Somebody has polished it for him, not that there’s much to polish.  “Awesome.  ‘Chuck’ it is.  It’s okay, Chuckles, you’ll get used to it.”

“I’m going to have you court-marshalled,” says Chuck, without much fire, and backs up abruptly as Mutt snorts at him.  His hand goes to his _sword,_ geez. 

“Hey, be nice,” Mike admonishes his horse, and turns back to the king, grinning.  “She doesn’t bite unless you’re trying to stab me, you’re fine.”

“Oh,” says Lord Vanquisher.  He doesn’t sound encouraged.  “Right, okay, wonderful.”

“Yeah!”  Mike considers his saddle—definitely made for one, huh—and then shrugs and hangs it back up again.  It’s not like he hasn’t ridden bareback plenty of times before.  “Are you gonna… y’know, whatever spell you did, the glamour?”

“Oh,” says Chuck, and clears his throat.  Cloth rustles.  “Right, right, um.  Just—just look over there.”

“Huh?”  Mike says, and promptly turns around to look—the king glances up at him, hands on the button of his shirt, and goes red.  “Oh!  Oh,  uh—"

“Turn _around!_ ” Chuck snaps, commanding and kingly despite the high squeak on the words, and pulls his shirt shut again.  Mike follows orders promptly, but it’s a long second before he can make his hands move.  Julie’s not there to stomp on his foot this time, and his brain keeps catching on—sharp, freckled collarbones and a flash of pale chest, _covered_ in complex spell-scars. 

Mutt nickers at him, and Mike would swear she’s narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously.  Mike snorts back at her and busies himself with cleaning off his saddle blanket and studiously not looking back in the king’s direction.  He feels the flare of magic in the air behind him barely a minute later.  It’s there and gone too fast for him to parse out what he’s feeling, if there’s any dragon in it; spells from patterns are harder to feel anyway, they activate so fast and then die off again. 

Mike frowns to himself, turns back and sees Lord Vanquisher buttoning up his shirt again, fast and deft.  It—it’s gotta be the king, it has to be, with the green cloak and the blonde hair, the freckles, but Mike’s pretty sure the only reason he can hold that knowledge in his head is that he knew Chuck was casting a glamour.  He’s got every feature Mike remembers him having, but it doesn’t… _look_ like him.  Mike would see him in the street and look the other way.

“That’s a good spell,” Mike says, impressed despite himself.  Hesitates, then tries, a little daringly, “…y’know, there were dragons with glamour— ”

“I know,” says Lord Vanquisher, and he sounds so openly unhappy to discuss it, Mike shuts his mouth immediately.  “Yes, I’m—I’m very aware.  Are we going?”

No dice there.  Okay.  Mike sighs a little and then grins and shrugs it off.  Either way, he’s going out riding!  And he’s going out riding with _Chuck,_ which is even better.  Mike loves riding, and he…really likes Chuck. 

Yeah he needs to get out of here.  Fresh air will help him clear his head.

\--

Riding does actually clear his head.  Mike hasn’t just gone out to go out in kind of a really long time, and there’s kind of a lot of magic worked into his tack from riding for Deluxe in the crusades but it’s still a fun challenge to keep his balance.  He keeps them at a fairly leisurely trot as they get clear of the castle, winding their way out into the abandoned part of the city.  There are long, straight roads out here, bridges and underpasses and here and there a streetlight dangling down almost horizontal, perfect for jumping.  Mike laughs a little at the sight of open road ahead of him, rolls his neck and shoulders and feels Mutt shift under him, trotting now, obviously eager to get going.  The king’s hands, which up to this point had been fisted uncomfortably in the back of Mike’s shirt, slide forward and knot in front of him instead.

“Okay, girl,” Mike murmurs, and sees Mutt’s ears twitch back toward him.  “You wanna show him what you can do?”

Lord Vanquisher starts to say something to that, but he barely starts the word before Mutt is off, accelerating rapidly over flat, even ground.  It’s been a while since he rode at a full gallop and Mike laughs, breathless with anticipation, leaning into—

Chuck makes a strangled squeaking noise against his ear and buries his face in Mike’s shoulder.  Mike blinks, faltering, trying to glance back—the king is pressed so close Mike can barely make out a flash of blonde hair, arms squeezing so tight around his chest it’s honestly kind of hard to breathe. 

“Everything okay back there?”

Chuck doesn’t move, answer, or breathe.  Mike urges Mutt a little faster, baffled, then almost immediately reins her back to a trot—then to a walk as the king makes a muffled sound of terror into his shoulder and squeezes him with desperate, rib-creaking strength.

Your majesty?” says Mike, startled, and glances down, patting Mutt’s neck comfortingly as she huffs and stamps impatiently.  “Whoa, hey.  Easy.  Dude, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Lord Vanquisher, but his voice sounds very tight and very high-pitched, more panicky than Mike has heard him

“You…kind don’t seem all that fine, sire,” Mike says dubiously, and Chuck groans, face still pressed into Mike’s shoulderblade.  His breath is very warm through Mike’s T-shirt, and it’s distracting as heck.  Not distracting enough to dissuade Mike, though.  “I know there’s no saddle but there’s all kinds of spells just on the reins, dude, you’re not gonna fall—”

Chuck makes a noise that might kind of be a laugh, except about an octave above his normal range.  “Okay sure yeah!” he says all in one sharp breath, “Good cool great!”

Mike really wishes he could see right now.  “Hey— _Chuck_ , seriously, are you—?”

“I don’t like going fast!” Chuck blurts out.

“You—what?”  Mike is still kind of having trouble in the breathing department, jeez.  His majesty has a good grip. 

“I don’t like going fast, I don’t like the jolting around, I don’t like b-being high up, I don’t— _ride,_ okay?”  Chuck’s voice is very fast, still too high-pitched.  “I never did i-in the army, and then I was king, and I don’t know how but I thought I was gonna be fine but I’m ahh _hahaha,_ I’m not, please make her stop doing that.   _Shit._ ”

“Oh.   _Oh_.”  Mike blinks, startled.  “Uh…oh, you really  _should’ve_ been in front then, but there’s still magic on—”

“I don’t care,” says Chuck, voice very small.  He doesn’t sound like a king any more—young, shaky and somewhere halfway to terrified.  “Make it stop—please, just—”

Mike pulls Mutt to a full stop and Chuck immediately scrambles to get down, staggering as he hits the ground.  By the time Mike has dismounted the king is halfway across the street, one hand pressed to his chest, eyes wide and face ashen.  

"...Sire...?"  Mike says cautiously.  Lord Vanquisher is still breathing like he was the one running, not Mutt.  "Are you...hurt?"  

Chuck shakes his head.  Mike breathes out, then immediately moves on to the next problem, which is—

“Well—good, but—how do you _not know how to ride_?” He’s still halfway convinced he heard wrong—it’s been part of his life for so long, it’s like saying you don’t know how to walk, how to talk.  “You couldn’t make it past eight in the Deluxe cadets, they trained everybody—how do you just _not know_?  You said you were a knight—”

“I wasn’t a knight!” Lord Vanquisher snaps, eyes still round and shoulders heaving.  Mike shuts his mouth abruptly at that tone, quelling and sharp.  “I wasn’t a knight, I wasn’t a squire, I was—nothing!  Do you know how _bad_ it got out here before Raymanthia?!  Mad Dog was losing and he knew it, he put his collar on anybody who could make the other side pay before they killed us.  They trained you!  That’s great!  You were—a soldier, I hate Deluxe but at least they train their soldiers, they watch their borders, they don’t just throw a people into a war and go ‘ _try to kill at least two people before you—_ '!”

He stops, breathing even harder now.  It’s like something has shaken loose in him, shifted, sent him spiraling out of alignment.  Mike opens his mouth, looking for something to say, but Lord Vanquisher isn’t listening.  “I didn’t even want to learn to ride,” he bursts out, and Mike knows the angry hurt isn’t really directed at him but he still winces.  “Some of the others did, I didn’t, but it didn’t matter anyway, there were only enough horses for the king and his generals, the— _real people_ , not the cannon fodder.”

“…Who cares if we lose foot-soldiers,” Mike says quietly, distantly, because he knows.  He gets it.  His chest hurts.  “Acceptable losses.  Gotta weigh cost and benefit.”

“ _Acceptable losses,_ ” Chuck repeats, venomous and trembling and too young.  “… _dammit._ ”

“Who cares if we burn a town,” Mike says, and closes his mouth abruptly on the words because _no_ , no, he can’t, not that.  He can’t talk about that.  But Chuck is laughing, entirely humorless, shaking his head.

“A town,” he says, and the wisps of light around his hands condense into something tiny and too bright to look at—a pilot light, a tiny sun.  “— _two_ towns, _five_ towns, a goddamn _city_.”  On every word he snaps out the hand with the light in its palm—the attack spell on his wrist, blazing as jagged bolts of blue-green-white fire slicing through the air.  The explosions crack ancient glass and brick, echo back like distant thunder.  “Acceptable freakin’ _losses_!”

He stops, lowers his hands slowly and slumps, scars fading.  He takes three breaths that shudder.  When he speaks again, his voice is very tired, suddenly, very quiet. 

“…God, _Mike._ ”  He says Mike’s name like it’s a curse.  “…Sir Chilton, I’m—so _done_ with kings.”

Mike is quiet for a while after that, letting the words settle, letting whatever old wounds he opened up fade away again.  Overhead the sun is starting toward the skyline, throwing long shadows between the buildings. 

“I thought I was too,” he says finally, quietly.  “…But it turns out there are some good ones left after all.”

He doesn’t know if he believes it as he says it—he’s talking to a _dragon-slayer,_ a dragon tamer if Mike’s instincts were right this morning—but he wants to.  God, he really, really wants to believe it’s going to be okay this time. 

The king turns back to him, like he’s startled.  Mike gives him a crappy kind of half-smile, and Chuck slumps a little, drags a hand over his face.   “…I’m…sorry,” he says, kind of small and cracking.  “You didn’t know any of that.  You didn’t—need to know.  It’s history now, it’s done.”

“Hey, history’ll mess you up,” Mike says, and he means it as kind of a joke, but it just makes the king nod a little, mouth twisting.  It’s too true, and they both know it.  “…So…if you were in Mad Dog’s army, did you ever…” he hesitates, mouth dry—but maybe, he was willing to talk about the other stuff, _maybe.._.  “Did you…y’know, see the dragon before—”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” says Chuck abruptly, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes Mike shut his mouth, look away. 

“My apologies, your majesty,” he says, even and polite, quiet.  “I meant no disrespect.”

“I know,” says Chuck, and presses his hands over his eyes for a second.  “I know.  You’re not…the first person to ask.”

Well, that makes Mike feel even worse.  Especially because this wasn’t even _close_ to what he was hoping for, when he asked Chuck out for a ride.  Mike glances up at Mutt—Mutt huffs at him and wanders away to a nearby rift in the road, picking at some grass where it pokes up through the asphalt. 

“…We can walk back,” Mike offers, and the king sniffs and sighs and rubs the tips of his fingers into one temple.  “Look, dude, I really am sorry.  I just wanted you to have some fun.”

“Yeah.  Well…yeah.”  Chuck sighs.  “I wouldn’t call riding my idea of fun.  You didn’t know that, it’s not your fault.”

“Why’d you even say you’d go?” Mike asks, and Chuck glances over at him and then back away again really quickly.

“Well,” he says.  “It would be most ungallant for a king to leave his debts unpaid.  You did buy me a drink, and everything.”

Oh shoot, Mike really wants to kiss him again. 

Mike is still staring at him, pinned in place by this unwelcome realization ( _off limits,_ no) when Chuck sighs and straightens himself to his full, kingly height, tucking his hair behind his ears.  “No,” he says firmly, “—no, it would be really stupid not to ride back.  I—know I’m safe, you’re a very capable rider.  I guess.  I think, I mean…I never learned.  But your horse seems to have enough brains to get us back safe, at least.”

“Dang straight she does,” says Mike proudly.  Mutt raises her head, ears twitching, and Mike holds up a hand—she nickers brightly and comes back over to regard Chuck with one dark eye, leaning over Mike’s shoulder.  Chuck tenses up all over, but doesn’t move as she leans forward and noses at him, then snorts.  Chuck glances at Mike, back up at Mutt, and then reaches out very, very cautiously and pats her nose. 

“There you go,” Mike says brightly.  “Cool, awesome!  Okay, your majesty, let’s get you back where you go before somebody misses you.”  _Before the Duke decides to yell at you again,_ he doesn’t say.  He’s got…kind of a lot to say about that, but he can’t really say any of it right now.  Not after all the stuff that just got aired out.  Jeez.

“Yeah, I guess,” says Chuck, sizing Mutt up with grim determination.  “Let’s…let’s do this.”

\--

Chuck has to magic himself up in the end, because no amount of new-found toleration between him and Mutt will make her stand still while he scrambles around trying to get seated with no stirrups and no block.  Mutt’s ears pin back, but she tolerates the entire mess bravely.

The ride back is a leisurely one.  Chuck still clings to Mike’s chest like he’ll die if he lets go, but he doesn’t make any more of those terrible, terrified little noises and he actually manages to kind of hold a conversation.  Mike turns him onto talking about the craftspeople they saw on the fourth of July, and Chuck answers with more and more enthusiasm as they start to come back into the city proper.

“—you could probably make it as a blacksmith,” he’s saying as Mutt walks back through the castle gates and heads immediately for the stables.  Mike waves at the guards brightly, and they wave back with barely a glance at the person he’s riding with.  “You’re built for stuff like that, I mean.  I’m sure you worked for all of—this, don’t get me wrong, but do you have any idea how many years of swinging swords around it took for my arms to—ah!”  He jumps, clings again as Mutt comes to a halt outside the stables.  Mike would swear she glances back expectantly at him, waiting for them to dismount.  “What?!”

Mike laughs.  “We’re just stopping,” he points out, and reaches back to nudge awkwardly at Chuck’s arm.  “We’re back, dude.”

“We—oh!  Oh, uh.  So we—hm.”  The king clears his throat, embarrassed.  “Right.” 

It’s a better dismount than it was before, but it’s still kind of hilariously awkward.  Mike watches, grinning, as Chuck twists nervously and kind of…awkwardly slides off Mutt’s side.  He almost falls on his butt.  It’s not as funny as it was before Mike found out why he didn’t know how to ride, but it’s still pretty funny.  Mike swings down after him, maybe more showily than he really needs to. 

Mike isn’t surprised it apparently took a long time to build up the muscle in Chuck’s arms and shoulders, he looks like he’s just a naturally skinny dude, but whatever he did _really_ worked.  He takes off his cloak to inexpertly help Mike get Mutt cleaned up, and Mike spends most of the time as they collect tack and brush her off watching Lord Vanquisher’s back and shoulders move.

Chuck has him turn his back again once they’re done, and there’s another rustle of cloth, and when Mike turns back he’s the king again, familiar features coming back together into the man who knighted him.  Mike grins at him, glancing up and down, enjoying the tailored shirt and slacks all over again, the full, kingly picture.  “Your Majesty,” Mike says, with a bow, and Chuck gives him a look, half-smirking.  “Where have you been?  I just made the acquaintance of a really cool dude who looked kind of like you—”

“You’re such a _shit_ ,” Chuck says under his breath, and pulls his cloak on.  But he’s still grinning.  “…I hope this mysterious, handsome stranger made you feel welcome in our mighty kingdom of Raymanthia,” he says, imitating Mike’s unpracticed court formal, and straightens his cloak.  “And did not burden you overmuch with unprompted truths and unwanted complaints of some personal tragedy.”

Mike half-laughs, but there’s a nasty little ache in his chest at the same time.  “No, I was glad to know him better,” he says, and he’s making an honest attempt, now.  His court formal is not great, even after Julie’s lessons brought it together a little bit, but it gives things…gravity.  Makes them heavier, more sincere.  “I was, uh—tragedy is…is true, and important, you—cannot claim to know a man if you do not care to know his tragedies.  My king.”

It comes out really clumsy, but it also makes Lord Vanquisher’s eyes go wide, young and open and vulnerable.  Mike stops, putting the words together in his head, and then finishes, “…I feel a great kinship with him,” he says, slow and even.  “I understand him better now than I did before, because I…I have had tragedies as well.  Of a similar nature.”

There.  That seems to pretty much cover it.  Mike dares to look up at the king’s face, and sees him…silent, watching Mike with a strange look in his eyes.  Hurt, or amused, or fond, or curious, Mike’s not sure and he doesn’t want to stare long enough to figure it out. 

“Well,” says Chuck finally, choked.  Clears his throat and looks away.  “Well, that’s—just…well.  Very good.”  Reaches up and straightens his cloak, his crown, pulls himself straight.  “Shall we?”

That’s probably the best Mike could have expected.  Mike nods and heads out toward the courtyard with him, walking fast to keep up with Lord Vanquisher’s long strides.  He feels awkward, now, kind of self-conscious, and the quiet is really overwhelming.  Mike hums to himself a little as they walk, and then as they start to round the tower toward the main courtyard, he can’t bear it any more.

“…we should fight,” he says.

The king stops dead in his tracks and looks back at Mike with such an absurd look on his face, Mike actually laughs.  Okay, yeah, he didn’t know how that would go over.  Wasn’t really planning on saying it, but now that he’s said it…hm.  Mike’s eyes catch on those broad shoulders again. 

“We should… _what_?”

“We should fight!”  Mike grins, looking him up and down with a different eye now, interested and considering, sizing him up as a competitor.  “Fist fight, y’know.”

“I—yes, I’m—I know, what you mean.”  Lord Vanquisher starts walking again, shaking his head.  “But, uh, _why?_ ”

“Because it would be cool!”  Mike says, and jogs to keep up.  “You’re—I know the war sucked, but people have gotta know you know how to fight, right?  So it’s a thing kings do, so that makes it kingly, so that makes it, uh, _appropriate._ ”

“That is _not_ how decorum works,” says Chuck.

“It could, though!”

Chuck snorts, but when he glances back at Mike his eyes flicker up and down too, narrow a little.  He doesn’t say anything, but he’s thinking about it.  Mike grins back at him, enthusiasm renewed.  "Nothing below the belt?" he suggests, and dares to throw a few mock-punches in Chuck's direction, too gentle and too well-telegraphed to be any real threat.  "Gentleman's rules, the whole bit."

"You're crazy," Chuck mutters, and flicks a hand—an invisible force pushes Mike gently but irresistibly away as they enter into the main courtyard again and faces turn toward them.  Chuck's shoulders square, his back straightens.  "...and what you suggest is highly indecorous."

"Yeah," Mike murmurs, too faint for the rest of the courtyard to hear.  He's grinning still, irrepressible, and Chuck's mouth twitches just a little.  "...but you want to, though.  Come on, dude.  I heard you kick butt.  I heard you can throw somebody who weighs twice as much as you like a sack of potatoes.  I heard—"

"Oh,  _shut up_ ," Chuck hisses back, and he's definitely smiling a little bit now, cheeks very faintly pink.  "You're such a dork."

"Sure," says Mike, and grins at him, gives his most courtly bow.  "...what are you gonna do about it?"

Chuck huffs and lengthens his stride.  Mike follows, half-jogging to keep up, and sees a wide ring near the edge of the yard, a couple of kids with fake weapons sparring awkwardly inside of it.  They look up as Lord Vanquisher comes closer, stare and then hastily vacate the ring as he comes to the edge of it and reaches up to pull the straggling strands of his bangs up into a ponytail.  

"Mike!"  

It's Texas.  He comes running up, stares at Mike and then looks at the king, standing at the edge of the ring.  "What— _oh._ Aw man!  You're totally gonna get us thrown out, but  _hey._ "  He holds out a hand.  Mike, mystified, bumps their fists together.  " _Nice,_ Tiny."

"Uh...sure," says Mike.  He's not listening—Chuck just undid his cloak, easing it off his shoulders and folding it in a few practiced motions.  People are gathering around them now, staring.  "Here, just—uh.  Just...uh."  Chuck lays the cloak on one of the benches around the ring, takes off his crown reverently and rests it on top of the cloth.  He takes off his sword belt last, and Mike's eyes linger on the deft flick of those long fingers as he undoes his belt buckle and pulls the scabbard free. 

Then he turns back to the ring, rolls his shoulders, takes a deep breath and steps inside.

"Sir," he says.

"Your majesty," Mike returns, a second late and clumsily formal, and drops his sword into Texas’s arms, stepping forward to bow.  "Standard rules.  Three minutes to win it.  Uh...no magic?"

A laugh ripples around the crowd.  Chuck huffs out a laugh, more regal and controlled than his undignified snort but close enough Mike laughs too, delighted.  "That hardly makes a fair show of my strength," he says, voice raised now, court formal.   Mike almost has to laugh again at the affected tone of haughtiness. 

Then Chuck meets his eyes, and the urge transmutes abruptly into something a little more breathless, more...hungry.  There's an anxious tension in his shoulders, but his eyes are very steady, lit up from the inside.  For a second, some ancient instinct stirs in the back of Mike's mind, urging him to bare his fangs.   _Dangerous._

"...For the sake of a clean fight, then," Chuck says, and holds out his hands.  When he flicks his wrists, a pair of twisted cables weave themselves out of the air, shine briefly in the sun and then wrap themselves snake-like around his wrists.  The faint haze of glowing magic on his forearms snuffs itself out.  "I can afford to grant you a handicap."

" _Oooo,_ " goes the audience.  Mike laughs, wild and brilliant, already lit up—he's having  _fun,_ and it's been such a long time.

"You might have to eat those words in a minute here," he warns, and cracks his neck, feels the tense wing-muscles between his shoulders work like he's ready to take to the air.  "I'm ready if you are.  Your majesty."

Mike is expecting a fight.  Kings don't get to be kings if they don't have some moves up their sleeves, especially not kings who came to the throne in the middle of a war.  But he wasn't expecting Chuck to spring forward toward him, feint high and then throw himself down and back and send a long leg scything out toward Mike's ankles.  Mike has to skip backward, comes dangerously close to the edge of the ring and has to dives forward and to one side to catch himself, tucking into a roll.  He bounces to his feet already on the defensive—which is good, because Lord Vanquisher has a heck of a reach and he's already closing space between them.

Mike stays on the move after that; avoids and evades, watches and searches for openings.  Chuck's had training, that much is clear.  He's had people teach him how to punch and he's done it over and over again until it stuck.  When he sticks to a pattern his punches are straight and clear, predictable and easy to block.  He also favors his left hand, keeping his right tucked close—the arm with more scars on it.  He must have a whole other fighting style when he's allowed to use magic and a weapon, and Mike  _aches_ to see it in action.  He's a mish-mash of tutored form—boxing jabs and feints—and something desperate and frenzied that must be battlefield experience in action.  Flurries of shots aimed at Mike's eyes and throat that he almost certainly learned as gouges.  Once, an instinctive jerk of the knee that comes dangerously close to breaking the  _below the belt_ rule.  When they grapple, when he's threatened, he falls back on something desperate and vicious and no-holds-barred.  It's  _great._

Mike finds himself showing off, pushing himself—springing away into a backflip, a roll, spinning kicks and throws and joint-locks.  He gets Chuck in a hold once, and then Chuck  _twists_ in his grasp, throws his long limbs into the motion and locks his elbow and slams Mike's face into the dirt.  People are cheering, and Mike's nose is bleeding, and he laughs and laughs and gets to his feet to dive forward again.

By the time the fight winds down, they're both dirty and sweaty and panting.  Chuck is red with exertion, hair coming loose around his face—Mike has a bloody nose and dirt in his hair, and he's grinning like a madman.  

"Three minutes!" Texas yells, and springs forward to fling an arm around Mike’s neck, ruffling up his hair and shaking him affectionately.  “Yeah!  Three minutes, kachaw!  That’s the dang Smiling Dragon, you rubes!  Whoo!”

“Tex, come on!” Mike protests, but he can’t stop laughing.  He’s so _happy_ , and that was such a good fight and Texas is here and Chuck _wrestled_ with him and it was _great_.  The crowd is clapping, one or two people whooping or cheering.  “Your majesty, wow!  You—deserve that crown, haha!”

Chuck is busy picking apart the suppressors around his wrists—he glances up, blinks and then smiles, crooked and warm.  "Oh!" he says, and then "Y—yes!  What?  Uh, yes, you...you too.  Very impressive."

He glances up at the castle, clears his throat and closes up a little, straightens up.  Mike glances up too—he doesn’t see whatever Chuck saw, but when he looks back down, the king is picking up his cloak, swinging it around his shoulders, buckling his sword onto his hip.

“I have business to take care of,” he says, and gives a dignified wave.  His knuckles are bloody as he straightens his hair and lowers his crown onto his head.  “Good day.”

He walks quickly toward the gate of the castle.  The crowd bows and murmurs respectfully, then go right back to talking as soon as Chuck is free of the press of bodies.  Texas glances after him, back to Mike, back to the king and says, fortunately low enough that it doesn’t carry over the noise of the crowd, “…Mike, your sugar daddy’s gettin’ away!  Get after him!”  He blocks the punch Mike aims at his shoulder, and then smacks Mike on the butt as he hurries away after the king.  “I know you’re desperate, Tiny!” he yells after Mike, and Mike turns back for a second to glare at him, knowing as he does it that the effect is kind of ruined by how he’s laughing.  “But try not to act _too_ desperate!  Texas out!”

Chuck is almost to the castle door when Mike reaches him, still lit up from the fight and red from Texas’s—totally wrong, dumb, embarrassing—teasing.  Mike scrubs at his bloody nose hastily and mostly succeeds in making his hands dirty and sticky.  “Sire—sire!  That was incredible!”

“Yes, very good,” says Lord Vanquisher.  He looks more than a little bit flustered.  “Excellent.”  They’re inside now, walking across the huge, glass room Chuck uses for court.

There are still people around—Mike resists the urge to throw an arm around his shoulder.  “It would be most pleasing if I—we—could spar, swords at dawn, if you understand me, not to the blood, of course, but I would love to see…”

“Perhaps,” says Chuck.  They step out of court and into the quiet hallways of the main tower.  Tension eases out of his shoulders a little.  “Maybe.  Some time.  I’m not good with a sword, I’m—I mean, I’m okay—”

But Mike is allowed to be casual now, and everything he’s been bottling up bursts out of him like it’s been pressurized.  “You were great!  You were so cool, dude!”

Chuck mouths something silently, then says “Yes, okay, thank you—”

“Totally!” Mike says, and laughs again, helpless to stop himself.  "Wow!  Geez, who taught you how to do that?"

"Oh,” says Chuck, and shrugs.  "I mean, um.  I had a fist-fighting tutor—"

"No, not  _that._ "  Mike imitates a couple of the fast, desperate jabs, the powerful uppercuts, the clawing gouges.  "You almost got me a couple times, that was nuts!  Where'd you learn those moves?"

"The Duke."  

Mike starts to respond—stops as the words register, laughter catching in his chest.  "What," he says, disbelieving, "—he—what, seriously?  _That_ guy?"

Chuck breathes out hard through his nose at the tone of Mike's voice, hunches his shoulders a little.  "Yeah," he says, and then, rushing on before Mike can answer, "—look, I know he's—not the easiest guy to get along with, and he's been kinda a jerk to you guys, but he's been here a long time, okay?  He was the only person who had my back, when I took over.  He knows how it works, out there, how you gotta...you win or, y'know, you..."  He swallows hard. "...so don't...just, remember that, okay?  He's been looking out for me for...a long time."

"I didn't—I didn’t say—" Mike starts, but he knows he didn't have to.  The Duke hasn't bothered to be subtle with how he feels about the Burners, and Mike knows there was nothing ambiguous about his tone just now.  And…sometimes people are good, but they’re jerks.  That’s…he knows that.  That’s a fact.  Mike’s friends with Texas, he gets that.  He breathes out.  “…of course, sire.  My apologies.”

“Ha.”  Chuck turns away, shakes his head.  He snaps his fingers, lights up a tiny scar on the pad of his thumb and traces it over his bruised knuckles.  There’s a spark of healing magic, and his skin heals over, bruises fading.  Then more scars, small ones—penny spells on his palms and fingers, flattening wrinkles in his shirt, cleaning dirt off his slacks.  The sheen of drying sweat on the bridge of his nose vanishes.  Wow, how many scars does he _have?_

Mike watches, fascinated, and Lord Vanquisher takes his crown off absently, hangs it off one wrist and starts fixing his hair by hand, pulling his bangs back behind his ears and re-doing his ponytail. 

“Gotta be ready for court any time, huh?”

“Mm?” Chuck shakes his hands out, then settles his crown back on his hair and straightens it.  “Uh, yeah.  Two minute cleanup.  Appearances, uh…” he frowns, does something with his ponytail to pull it tighter.  “Yeah.  Look, Mike, this was a lot of fun, but I have stuff I need to get done today, so—?”

“Oh!”  Mike grins, disappointed but not surprised.  “Right, yeah.  Okay, sure.  Uh…I hope you…feel better.”

“I feel fine,” Chuck says dryly, against all the evidence Mike’s seen to the contrary.  He looks better, definitely, but there’s still a thin-stretched air of stress, tension settling back over him like a snowfall the longer he spends in the palace.  Mike hesitates, trying to figure out what he can say to make that worried line between Chuck’s brows ease a little.

“I’ll try to…get along better with the Duke?” he tries, and an appreciative kind of half-grin quirks the corner of Lord Vanquisher’s mouth.

“I would be most grateful,” he says, and he sounds honestly relieved.  “I’ll…try to have a word with him.  Y’know, you’re…our guests here, and I know he’s been—”

“Sire!”

Chuck whips around.  Mike is already moving, instinctively pushing between Chuck and the source of the yell, hand snapping up to the hilt of his sword; he stops abruptly, half-drawn, at the sight of one of the palace guards.  Then he takes in the full picture, and a faint pang of alarm prickles the back of his neck.  The guard is running flat-out, wide-eyed and out of breath, and he barely manages to bow when he reaches Chuck before doubling over, panting.  “Sire,” he says again, as soon as he’s got breath.  “Sire, the—Bardonia, advances on the borders, your majesty the border farms are in flames—”

“What?” says the king, and strides forward, pushing past Mike to grab the man’s shoulder and pull him up. “Where?”

“North,” the guard pants.  “The northern scar, they’re—hostages, they’re capturing everybody they find, they say—” he hesitates, like he knows what he’s about to say won’t go over well.  “—they say…they’re Bardonian citizens and they should—come back to the side of their rightful nation, sire.”

Lord Vanquisher’s face is very, very white, ashy and set.  Mike is almost expecting a yell, a curse, the pained, ranting young man he saw during their ride, but the king just takes a breath and says “…very well.  Gather my militia at the gates.  Any soldier who can be spared in good conscience.  Alert our new knights.” 

He watches for a second as the man bows and takes off running the way he came.  Mike is just standing there, frozen, startled by the suddenness of the news—the abrupt shift in his king’s attitude and the cold, foreign authority in his voice.  Lord Vanquisher stands there for a long second, then turns his head very, very slightly.

“…Sir Smiling Dragon?”

“Your Majesty,” says Mike, and his voice feels strange and rough in his throat, his mouth is dry as the king turns and looks at him, head high and hands shaking and eyes like chips of ice.

“Do your duty,” says Lord Vanquisher, and the order shivers through Mike, settles on him with the cold weight of an iron collar.  “Defend my kingdom.”

The feeling of being commanded is familiar, and foreign, and painful and welcome, and Mike barely thinks about it before he bends his knee, bows his head.  “As you say, Lord Vanquisher,” he hears himself say, and turns without a backward glance to follow orders.

—

By the time the Burners and the Raymanthian militia are done gathering up the supplies they’ll need and marshalling in the courtyard, it’s past sunset.  They load their horses in the dark, nobody speaking much.  Mike is jumpy, on edge like he always is before a mission—the entire time as people ran around the castle, as Mike hurried back and forth collecting his supplies, he kept feeling those little prickles in his bones, smell-feel-hearing something on the edge of his senses.  He doesn’t want to leave the castle, and he doesn’t want to stay—it feels like _dragon_ here, in little bursts and lingering wisps.  Random objects, strange corners.  Mike is going _nuts._

So he’s not in a talking mood.  Neither are the other Burners, if it comes to that.  Julie doesn’t even ask Mike about his day out with the king; she’s very quiet, already mounted up.  Her hair is tied up in a very tight bun on the back of her head and she’s geared for a fight, wearing relic armor from before the fall.  One of her souvenirs from her father’s vaults, heavy and black and deceptively tough.  Texas has his riding gear on, looking uncharacteristically grim and preoccupied.  Dutch has a huge, heavy satchel over his shoulder, packed with gadgets and tools.  It’s…weird, to be forming up to go out on a job with people they don’t know.  Mike does his best to smile at the men and women around him, although he’s not really feeling up to it right now. 

There’s a square of windows near the top of the main tower, still lit up from the inside with a distant, faintly-flickering light.  Mike glances up at it and wonders if he’s imagining the dark figure looking down on them from high, high overhead.   He’s never asked the others if they feel oaths the same way he does—he can still feel the weight of his sworn obedience to the king, heavy on his shoulders and in his chest.  _Defend my kingdom._  

“Sir Chilton.”

Mike jumps, startled, and looks down to see a familiar figure crossing the courtyard toward him, ruby cane swinging at its side.  The other guards all bow—the Burners exchange looks and then nod with the minimum of required respect as the Duke of Detroit comes to a halt at the edge of their group, considering them all with something very like amusement.

“Sir Chilton,” he says again.  “A word.  The rest of you, be on your way, why don’t you?  Time is dead civilians.  The… _Smiling Dragon…_ will catch up with you shortly.”

Ruby’s expression tightens to something hard and unhappy, but she bows again and turns, mounting a sturdy, black destrier to lead the way out of the courtyard at a walk.  The guards follow her—then the Burners, when Mike gives them a sharp glance and a nod.  Texas throws the Duke a very nasty look as he goes, and huffs fire between his teeth.  The Duke raises an eyebrow at him, apparently unimpressed, and watches as the Burners ride out of the gate and onto the riverside road, vanishing from sight.

Then he turns to Mike, and smiles.

“What do you want, your grace,” says Mike.  There’s probably literally no way he could have said that _less_ respectfully than he did, but the Duke just snorts. 

“I’m just here to have a little _discussion_ , Mr. Smiling Dragon.  No need to get your tail in a knot.” 

If he doesn’t stop it with the stupid dragon jokes, Mike is literally gonna just—no, shoot, no, whatever.  Mike’s not an animal and he can control his temper and it’s _fine._  

…But on the other hand, geez this guy is rude.  Mike frowns at him, slides one hand up to rest it casually on the hilt of his sword.  “That’s _sir_ , if you please.  _Your grace._ ”

“Mm, yes, well,” says the Duke sniffily.  “ _Sir_ Chilton, would you happen to be the same Sir Chilton who dragged his majesty into the middle of a public ring today and challenged him to a _duel_?”

“Wh—”  of course, of course he knew about it, Mike kinda expected that, but he doesn’t like the way the Duke said that.  All sharp and nasty, like it was some kind of power grab, when Mike really just wanted Chuck to have some fun.  Mike frowns at him even harder.  “I asked if—his majesty would like a practice match,” he says.  “He does a stressful job.  There’s nothing wrong with blowing off some steam.”

“The king doesn’t have time to blow _anything_ with you,” the Duke says, and Mike opens his mouth to answer and then sputters as the words register, the suggestive tone.  “And you’d do well to keep yourself to yourself and stop getting so… _up close and personal_.”

“I’m not going to stop talking to my king!” Mike says, more hotly now, “—if I’m going to be his knight—”

“You are _not_ his knight,” the Duke snaps, and his tone of thinly-veiled hostility isn’t so thinly-veiled any more.  His hands are very tight on his cane.  Mike’s spine prickles, something _familiar…_ “You’re a forsworn _drifter._ A sell-sword, a _mercenary,_ and—”

“Who else is he going to talk to?” Mike growls, and his chest feels too cold and hollow.  He should be spitting fire on the words, snarling through his fangs, he’s _so angry_.  “You?  So you can yell at him again?!”

The tip of the Duke’s cane slams against the ground with a crackle of something like lightning.  Mike jerks at the sudden flash, the smell of ozone, half-drawing his sword.  But the Duke doesn’t attack him—just makes a noise, a sound that make the hair stand up on the back of Mike’s neck.  A low, furious growl in his chest.  "You listen here," he starts, and the way his grip shifts on his cane makes Mike’s hand tense on the hilt of his sword.  The Duke’s teeth are bared, a proud, furious snarl, and Mike can barely resist the urge to snarl back.  "I don't know what you think you're doing here, Mr. Chilton, but I've worked too long and  _too hard_ to get my kingdom  _just_ the way I like it, and I'm not stepping down to let you and your friends go walking all over it."

"It's not  _your_ kingdom," says Mike, and the Duke sneers at him, all those teeth—

And relaxes.  Lowers his cane again, leaning on it indolently.

“…Whose do you think it is, Smiling Dragon?” he says, cordial and poisonous.  He pushes his glasses up the thin bridge of his nose, watching Mike from behind those mirrored lenses.  " Lord Vanquisher, the great dragon-slayer?  Or do you think it's you?”  He smiles a little, a sharp, nasty expression.  “…You've certainly turned his head, all dashing and daring-do.  Just whisking him right off his feet.   Is that how you figure it’s gonna go, he’ll let you rule for him if you do it from the bedroom?"

"I--" Mike starts, stymied at the sudden lack of conflict, the abrupt change from snarling to silky, vicious smiles.  His face feels stupidly hot, and it's dumb to be embarrassed about this, it’s not _true_ so there's no reason for it to be embarrassing.  But he makes it sound so... _tawdry_ , cheap and gross and perverted.  "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?"  The Duke smirks, raises one brow superciliously.  He lifts his cane and taps it sharply on Mike’s breastplate, a faint ring of stone on metal.  "I think he'd say otherwise.  After all, there's nobody who knows him like I do.  Remember?  He _needs_ me."

Mike opens his mouth--shuts it again.  His teeth are grinding, jaw aching.  Burning in his chest.  The Duke waits pointedly, one brow raised, as the silence stretches on.  

"...a-that's what I thought," he says, soft and satisfied.  "You might have the attention of his heart and...sundry other anatomy...but I don't think you're going to pull the rest of him away from me.  A boy king without a father is a lonely little beast.  Like...a dragon without a flight."

He says it the same way he says everything else, opaquely amused, like it should hurt.  It's the same way he says  _everything else,_ there's no reason for it to make a hot bolt of shock and fear jolt down Mike's spine.  He stares, startled and affronted and suddenly uncertain, and the Duke laughs and shakes his head. There’s a feeling in the air, that familiar throb and shiver—pressure.  Magic.  Mike’s palms are slick, his mouth is dry, there’s something pushing at him, trying to get—something, he doesn’t know what—trying to get into him, wrap around him, take something out of him, he can’t—

“Too easy,” says the Duke, and the moment breaks.  Mike swallows, and realizes that he has his sword out, the tense muscles in his back are twitching and his chest is _throbbing._ "...Just... _too_ easy.  Watch yourself, Mikey my boy.  Heaven knows you don't have room to put a foot wrong--somebody's heart just might get broken."

“My Duke.”

Mike jumps, teeth baring all over again in shock—but it’s just the Duke’s guard, melting out of the pre-dawn gloom like a shadow.  She glances at Mike briefly, then leans over to murmur something in the Duke’s ear.  He laughs to himself and nods. 

“Speaking of which,” he says.  “His majesty requires my presence.I’ll be sure to let him know you’re on your merry way.”  He throws off a Deluxian salute, and Mike hates how that makes his arm twitch, instinctively wanting to return it even after all this time.  “ _A-dismissed._ ”

Mike wants to run after them, fly after him, dig his claws into the Duke’s throat and tear gouges along his sides.  Sink his fangs—

There’s a dim, flickering light in the windows far overhead.  Mike glances up at it one last time, breathing hard through his teeth, and turns.  Sheathes his sword.  Goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> flight  
> n. \ ˈflīt \
> 
> 1: an act or instance of passing through the air by the use of wings  
> 2: the ability to fly  
> 3: a brilliant, imaginative, or unrestrained exercise or display - "a flight of fancy"  
> 4: a draconic term for a family or mating group of dragons (human equivalent; a "scorch" of dragons) - "this land belongs to my flight"


	5. Loyal Flights, Greedy Loves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Burners do what they do best, and the Smiling Dragon lives up to his name. In the aftermath, more questions are raised than answered, and Mike hears something he shouldn't--or at least, something he wishes he hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Mad Dog acts like nothing can hurt us as long as we've got his dragon, but I don't even think the dragon wants to be here any more. Yesterday we attacked the Drakemire army, and they had this vicious little garnet dragon collared for them, I don't know what it did but people are saying our dragon got hurt. Everybody's acting like it didn't happen. They came around asking for people with healing spells, then pulled one of our mages to the king's camp. He came back looking really pale and he's still passed out from spellfever._  
>  _"If I don't come back, try to get across the river, out of the state, wherever you can go. It has to be better than here."_  
>  \--Letter from an anonymous, fallen soldier, rescued from the Battle of Raymanthian Independence

The edge of the kingdom stretches far around the border of the old capitol city, wider than Mike expected—a long ride.  Dutch takes to the air again as the buildings start to get smaller, farther apart; Mike listens to the voice in his ear as Dutch flies ahead, murmuring updates as he goes.  It’s all there really is to do, through the long, tense night.  Texas spends some of the ride explaining the strategy to the Raymanthian militia, with occasional input from the other Burners or reminders to keep his voice down.

“So Dutch tells us when he sees ‘em, and makes lights and stuff happen so they’re all distracted and junk—”

“I usually cloak us,” Julie contributes.  “Dutch would go in as a scout, I’d cloak Mike and Texas and they’d take care of the fighting, but...”

“We don’t usually take on groups this big,” Mike says, distant and blunt.  Dutch is flying, somewhere overhead, and Mike’s back is aching, the wings he doesn’t have are itching to beat.  “Not head-on.  We never had enough people.  That’s where you guys come in.”

Ruby nods sharply, eyes on the road.  “We’re more than capable of giving you reinforcement.”  Her eyes shift to one side, the barest twitch of discomfort.  “…We’re less experienced at offensive strikes than—”

“Holing up with a buncha traps, yeah.”  Texas snorts.  “So, I breathe fire and Trixie finds traps and Dutch goes flyin' around up there and you should see it, when we're doin' that stuff Mike—”

“Mike does what he does best,” Julie interrupts firmly. 

“Which is look totally cool,” Texas finishes, with satisfaction.  “And kick butt, ka-chaw.  It’s cool, Texas will show you how it’s done.”

“What he  _means to say_ ,” Julie says, with a dirty look in Texas’s direction, “…is that we’re going to have to help each other out.  We’re fighting in unfamiliar terrain, and you’ve been on the defensive since your kingdom was founded. This isn't the best scenario to try teaming up with new people for the first time, but..." she shrugs.  "We've done more with less."

"Mm."  Ruby throws Julie a sharp, narrow-eyed kind of look at the word "less", but doesn't comment.  "...Very well.  And what is to be our strategy?"

Picking out a plan takes the better part of the rest of the ride.  Texas is all for charging in like they normally do, but, Ruby is quick to point out, this is a hostage situation.  They spend a solid twenty minutes arguing about the best way to get the hostages out of harm's way before Julie, who's been frowning silently for most of the discussion, says "...what if there was a way for them to just stand up and walk out?"  

\--

The plan goes well right up until the point where it doesn’t. 

The Bardonians have picked a good place to set up camp—defensible, guarded on all sides but the entrance.  The hostages are a little ways away, out of sight of the main camp but with four guards on them.  They’re mostly young, dirty, blood-splattered and…blindfolded.

“There’s a rumor that Lord Vanquisher can see and hear through the eyes and ears of any of his subjects,” Ruby murmurs, and creeps through the trees, leaning up on tip-toe to see the hostages through a break in the foliage.  “It works often to our advantage.  They don’t dare keep Raymanthian subjects in their camp for fear his majesty will come for them.”  She smiles fiercely at the distant Bardonian camp for a second, then seems to shake herself awake.   “…There _will_ be spell-traps between us and them.  You think she can make it through?”

“I’d bet my life on it,” says Mike.  “Have, actually, pretty much every mission.  Julie’s got this.”

“Hey _,_ ” says Dutch over the comm, and Mike stifles a laugh.

“…Julie and _Dutch_ have got this.”

“Dang straight,” says Dutch, satisfied, and goes silent again. 

There’s a broad, flat space between the hostages and the tree-line where the Raymanthians are hiding.  Julie sized it up for a couple of minutes when they arrived, then up at the night sky, then down at the flat ground, then nodded to herself and promptly shimmered out of existence.  Mike can feel her getting farther away from him as she picks her way across the field, stopping every so often as she uses his eyes to find trap-spells, picking them apart as she goes. 

It’s a slow process, and Mike was already twitchy when they got there, but he can wait.  He can be patient.  Julie’s got this.

…Yeah, so by the time Julie reaches the hostages he’s pacing back and forth, jittering with barely-suppressed frustration.  He’s not good at sitting still.

Julie and Dutch have used this combination of spells before, but usually to steal some relic or other from a Deluxian stronghold and cover their escape.  Julie cloaks the thing they’re taking, and Dutch instantaneously replaces it with an illusionary copy.  There’s a flicker, a second where they vanish and reappear, but you’d only notice if you were staring at whatever they’re cloaking, and the guards definitely aren’t.  They’re standing close together, making no effort to patrol, apparently gossiping about something.

“We’re a go up here _,_ ” Dutch murmurs in Mike’s ear.  “Julie, I’m starting at the back.  White kid in a red shirt.  Black hair.  Three, two…”

“Hope these guys know how to act,” Mike mutters, watching the distant, shadowy huddle of bodies with narrowed eyes.  “If the guards figure out something’s up, we’re screwed.”

“Citizens of Raymanthia are well aware of the stakes and arts of war,” says Ruby with dignity.  “They would not betray the plan of an agent of the king.”

“We’re pretty tough,” contributes one of the soldiers.  “Good poker faces.”

“Fair,” says Mike, half-laughing, and then glances up sharply as a shimmer in the air catches his eye.  “ _Sh._ ”

There’s a moment of tense silence, and then a voice says, very quietly, “… _Sir Ruby?_ ”

Ruby slumps, relieved.  “I’m here,” she says.  “Hurry, through here—budge _up_ , Sir Chilton!”

“One,” Mike says through the comm, and almost immediately the illusion magic cloaking the former hostage drops away.  It’s a kid no older than twelve, with nasty bruises on his face and head and a blinding grin. 

“Sir _Ruby_ ,” he says again, a breathless whisper, “Holy crap!  You’re, like, my hero, can you—”

“Hsst,” Ruby says, not unkindly.  “There will be time for words later.”

“Yeah!  Yeah, sorry.”  The kid stares around at the rest of the knights.  Mike grins at him, and the kid’s eyes widen a little.  Yeah, okay, Mike’s teeth are kinda pointy right now.  It’s not that weird, there’s enough species that can cross-breed with humans—Mike could just be 1/32 siren or something, it’s _fine._ He keeps smiling like there’s nothing weird, and a second later the kid’s alarmed look goes curious and then just grateful.  Yeah, nailed it. 

Another shimmer.  Mike glances out through the trees, eyes narrowed, and then hazards, “…hello?”

There’s a soft intake of breath from the empty air outside the treeline.  “Sir Ruby?”

“She’s here, yeah,” says Mike, and glances back at Ruby as the next hostage creeps through the trees with a soft crackle of leaves.  “People really know you, huh?  Two.”

“Sir Ruby’s the _best,_ ” says the second hostage, and shivers as the illusion spell falls away from her.  “She’s the head of the guard!  It—”

“ _Shh,_ ” say about four people.  The kids subside, and are chivvied gently to the back of the group. 

The rest of the hostages follow, one after the other.  At one point the guards break apart, and do a summary patrol around the huddled group of prisoners—Mike holds his breath for what feels like an hour, until finally the guards put their heads together again.  The faint murmur of conversation resuming echoes across the empty field. 

Julie is in the middle of silently rescuing the eleventh hostage out of thirteen, when things abruptly go badly wrong.

" _Julie,_ " Dutch's voice hisses through the comm spell.  "People are gettin' up.  Somebody just pointed your way."

"Reinforcements?"  Mike is so tense he's almost shaking, eyes flickering from the guards on the hostages to the place he can feel Julie, hidden behind her illusion.  "What tipped them off?"

"Dunno."  Dutch hisses between his teeth.  "--shoot--Julie, I think we're made, get outta there--"

"There's two more hostages," Julie breathes, and she must be using Mike's stone because his chest throbs softly, his eyes can suddenly pick out the shimmer of illusion as the eleventh hostage creeps toward the tree-line.  "I can't leave them."

"You got  _thirty seconds,_ " Dutch growls, "Get outta there!"

"You have to take out the guards," says Ruby.  "Now!"

Dutch starts to object, but Julie makes the decision for them.  There's a flare of golden light, and the guards whip around as Julie melts out of the shadows, tossing her boomerang in a wide arc.  It trails spidery bolts of electricity as it goes, and the faint sound of one of the guards screaming echoes as the lightning catches on her half-drawn sword.  The illusory hostages jump up, milling forward, insubstantial.  The guards hack wildly at them as Julie snatches her boomerang out of the air and hurries forward, hacking through the cuffs on the hands of the last two hostages.  One of them sprints toward the tree-line—the other one must be a mage, because there's a flash of red light and fire blooms out of nowhere, lighting up the night.

"Go!"  Mike snaps, and for a second it's like he never left Deluxe at all, his chest is aching and everything is drawing to a single, white-hot point behind his eyes.  "Go go  _go!_ "

The Raymanthian militia reach the clearing at the same time as the Bardonians.  There's a nasty clash, a sudden cacophony of screaming metal and the burning smell of magic.  Some of the hostages they just rescued are rushing back in alongside them, wrestling for control of weapons, ganging up on their former captors.  Texas is whooping somewhere behind Mike, a war-cry full of fire, Dutch is swooping down high overhead, Julie falls in next to him, and Mike can't stop himself from laughing.  They're all around him--his family, his  _flight_.  Using his power, feeding it back into him. 

He may not have wings, Sight, true fire, but he can feel the heat behind his eyes as they glow in the dark, cutting through shadows like he's in broad daylight.  The fire in his chest, the prickle as scales spread between his shoulderblades.  He runs faster, he catches swords with his bare hands, he rakes his nails across a man's helmet and his nails tear into the reinforced visor, leaving ugly gouges.  Somebody's knife rakes Mike's arm; he feels a stinging scrape open in his skin, but they didn't come here ready for something like him.  Mike grins at the woman who attacked him, baring teeth that finally feel sharp enough.  Feeling the incredible rightness of hazy heat rippling around his fangs as Texas lights up the darkness behind him and somebody screams.

"They're trying to cut us off!" Julie screams, high and hoarse over the chaos, and Mike laughs again, wild, fearless.  Lunges forward and slams the hilt of his sword into the face of the woman who attacked him.

“They can try!” he yells back, as the woman goes down with a cut-off yell of pain.  “Hey, Ruby--!”

"I heard!"  Ruby is panting, mud all down one side and her shoulder, eyes blazing.  She gives a piercing whistle, and the Raymanthian militia immediately disengage and back into a tight group, facing out with their backs to the recaptured hostages.  Mike doesn't move with them--he's not done fighting, he can  _win_ this.  

"Dutch!" he calls to the sky, and far overhead Dutch shouts something that makes the air shiver.  The earth splits, bursting open in jets of illusory fire.  The heat is a second late, feels wrong--Julie's using Mike's Sight somewhere behind him and his eyes are sharp enough to pick out the wrongness of the flames, but the Bardonians obviously aren't.  Horses rear and scream, soldiers scatter away from the inferno. 

Mike chases after them, wanting to fly, to hunt them down, to burn a line around his territory they'll never have the gall to cross again.  The Bardonian line scatters when Mike charges them, laughing like a madman, roaring wild with joy.  One woman is left standing as they run; Mike bares his teeth at her, a fierce grin of anticipation, and the woman lifts her hand and--and...

There's a stone in the palm of her hand.  Set in gold, glowing a deep, vivid blue-green.  Mike's eyes snap to it, can't pull away, and the woman opens her mouth and lets out a noise like a thousand scraping pieces of glass, an unbearable screeching roar, a  _dragon's_ roar--

An arrow hits her in the chest.  

The woman staggers, eyes going wide--stumbles, falls.  Mike sprints forward toward her, heart hammering--it can't be, it  _can't_ be, but he can't have been mistaken, there's no way.  

The woman isn't moving by the time Mike reaches her.  Mike grimaces at the sight of her still, empty face, but he doesn't have a second to spare; the stone is gleaming through her fingers.  Deep seawater green, fathomless and flawless, set in an intricate golden brooch that stinks of magic.  It could just be a gem, but the shiver of dragon magic is still clinging to it, the glow is still fading from the heart of it, and Mike knows it's not.  He reaches out, opening up the woman's slack grip, fingers trembling as--

The metalwork on the brooch shifts like a living thing, wrapping tight around it.  There's a flash of hot magic, a flare of ozone-smelling wind, and the brooch winks out of existence.

"Mike!"

Mike is still staring--it takes him a second to register the sound of his name, a second longer to turn around.  That leaves one last second for him to wonder who said his name before somebody on horseback comes pounding toward him, brings a metal club the length of Mike's arm around in a whistling arc and hits Mike squarely in the face.  

Mike can shrug off a lot of stuff, but a mace in the jaw isn't one of them.  He hits the ground with a dizzying  _thud,_  gasping as the pain hits like...well.  Like being hit in the face with a solid metal club.

... _geez._   Ow.

He tries to get up a couple of times, but his head spins and nausea tugs alarmingly at his insides when he starts to move.  Mike's vaguely aware that he's probably concussed.   _Baseball bat,_  he thinks, and then spends a couple of endless seconds trying to figure out why before he realizes that's the thing he got hit with.  Shaped like one, anyway.  He's pretty sure back when they were for games, people didn't make them that freakin'  _heavy._ People are running, around him.  Chasing.  People on horses.  Mike's gotta get up.

"Mike!  Mike, man, you okay?  Talk to me."

Dutch.  That's Dutch.  Mike pushes himself up onto his knees, sways forward and feels his forehead bump against Dutch's shoulder.  Rough fabric of his cloak, the softness of his T-shirt.  The warm, soft-hard texture of a living body underneath it.  He wants to press up against Dutch and sigh, it feels so nice and he likes him so--

" _Mike._ "

"Yeah!"  Mike says, and snaps back to the moment.  Battle, he got hit, concussion.  He's down.  "Yeah, 'm here."  And then, "--she had a--Dutch, she had--"

"I gotta fly," says Dutch over top of him.  He looks pained, resolute.  "Mike, look— _look_ at me.  Listen, man.  We'll talk later but I gotta fly,  _right now_.  Is that okay?"

"Nnh," says Mike, and sways.  Geez, that's a lot of blood in his mouth.  Chopped his lip open.  Downsides of sharp teeth.  He hurts, and he's tired, and his head is spinning.  He doesn't want Dutch to leave him, doesn't want to feel that pulling throb in his chest as Dutch uses powers Mike can't have any more.  Like some other dragon did tonight, that was a  _dragon stone,_ it was somebody else's dragon stone, somebody else made-- "--'m  _tired_ , Dutch, it feels really bad..."

"I know," says Dutch, like he really gets it.  He looks back as somebody yells behind him--back to Mike, mouth all twisted up and eyes wide and worried.  "But I  _gotta,_ Mike.  Are you gonna be okay?  If I fly?"

"Dunno," says Mike, and some part of him through the dazed fog in his skull is aware that there's some reason he should be watching his mouth.  But he doesn't have the energy, doesn't know why or how, and all he can really do is tell the truth.  "Yes.  Dunno.  Maybe.  You gotta.  'S okay."

"Okay," says Dutch, and looks up and past Mike.  "Okay--hey!  Watch him!  Keep him safe!"

"Yessir!" somebody yells back, and a pair of strong arms is helping Mike to his feet, a Raymanthian soldier in muddy armor.  "Come on, Sir Chilton, come on, get your feet under you--"

Dutch spreads Mike's wings and takes off in a rush of warm wind, and Mike cries out loud and staggers again at the wrench in his chest--then straightens a little, breath catching.  It's easier to focus, when they're using as much of his powers as possible.  He can think, hear, see through the pain.  He can do this.  He can't let them fight alone, not his Burners, his mates, not the people he loves.  Dutch is shouting more words of power, Julie's voice is an incomprehensible static in his ear, Texas is roaring out blasts of flame that light up the pre-dawn darkness.  Determination takes the place of strength, jolting Mike back to life like a shot of adrenaline.  "I'm okay," he says, "—‘M fine.  I'm great!  Let's do this!"

"Sir Chilton, we're nearly--" starts the man who's helping him up, and Mike resettles his grip on the hilt of his sword and pulls free of his hold.  "Sir!"

"Mike!"  

That's--important voice, that's important.  Mike turns back, wild-eyed and panting, and sees Texas.  His lips are chapped and his voice is hoarse as the fire flickers out behind his teeth; Mike can feel the heat dying in his chest too, fading away and leaving him cold.  "Hey, Tiny, hey.  We got it.  We got 'em.  We're cool."

Mike stares around, breathing hard.  The Bardonian raiders are running, in disarray.  There are people down, figures on the ground, motionless.  Some of them are Bardonian, some of them...aren't.  Mike's head is throbbing.  The world is going flat as Julie stops using his Sight, he feels heavy and staggered as Dutch comes swooping down and lands in front of him, wings vanishing.  He's blind, and cold, and tied down and bleeding and  _less_ again.  

"Ow," says Mike, and then makes a faint noise of vague surprise as his knees crumple out from under him.

\--

Mike is a fast healer, but he can’t just wave off a metal bat in the face.  Not without making people suspicious, anyway.  Besides, just because he  _could_ sleep off a concussion doesn’t mean he’d enjoy it much.  It’s a lot nicer to lie back and let the camp healer run his hands over Mike’s head and face. 

 “…You were cool out there,” he says to Dutch, while the healer tsks and presses soft fingertips to the throbbing spot on Mike’s jaw.  Mike’s voice keeps coming out slurred and weird; his jaw hurts really bad when he talks, but he’s hazy and tired right now, missing his flight.  His Burners.  Dutch has obligingly let Mike take his hand, sitting pressed up against his side.  “Fly…so nice.  R’lly good.  You’re great.”

“Aw, you were great too,” says Dutch, and squeezes his hand.  Smiles down at him, warm and quiet and private.  “...Good job out there.”

“Mm,” says Mike, and smiles.  His jaw throbs; the healer makes a prohibitive little noise.  “—sorry.”

Get some rest, dude,” says Dutch, and strokes back Mike’s hair.  Mike turns his face up, closes his eyes and just—and he just—

It just takes him by surprise, sometimes.  Every time.  His Burners are just...he likes them all so  _much._ It's hard to breathe sometimes, he likes them so much.  It's hard to talk to them, hard to think of what to say, he just wants to sit and grin at them like an idiot.  They're so...

...they're just...

Once, in the years when Mike was alone, Rayon talked to him briefly about flights and mates and all sorts of stuff Mike kind of cringed through.  He didn't get it, when the guy first explained, because he'd never felt anything like that before.  The way Rayon talked to the men who were always walking with him, quiet and fondly private, he didn't get that.  It didn't fit into the rules he knew, the rigid Deluxian system of taboos and unspoken laws.  He’d left again the next day, disgusted with himself, hating Rayon, hating…what they were.  Refusing to think about the things he just learned.

Mike gets it, now.  He gets it, and he hates himself for it, and he wouldn't give it up for the world.  

Sometimes he imagines Julie with opal scales, lean and vivid, the way Texas would butt horns with him, fire flickering behind his fangs as they rolled and wrestled.  Dutch's arcing wings, and it's dumb, and he hates it.  Hates it almost as much as the way his heart skips a beat when he lets himself think about Chuck and wide, slit-pupil eyes like sapphires, the long arch of his spine picked out in flecks of golden scale.  

Lord Vanquisher,  _slayer of dragons._

Mike's head hurts when he thinks about it too hard.  His chest aches, and his stomach feels like a cold, tight, unhappy knot.  

So he leans into the human things, instead.  It might not be normal to want all of them at once ( _greedy, selfish_ ) but each of them individually, that makes sense.  Julie's unpracticed sweetness, Texas's violent joy, Dutch's emotional, expressive brilliance.  Chuck's anxious resolve, his courage.  They're the best, and if Mike was human he could choose one to--he could pick--

Every time he tries to imagine that, loving just one of them, if makes a lonely, awful feeling twist his insides.  Every time, the image swims back up to the back of his mind--his flight, his  _friendsfamilymates_ the ones he loves, all wrapped around him.  Held close, safe, protected.  The twisting doesn't get better when he imagines that, just gains an edge of desperate guilty longing--he tries not to think about it.  

He never quite succeeds.

"That's about it," says the healer, and Mike jumps a little, blinking, coming back to himself.  His jaw still aches faintly, but it just feels bruised now, not like he's in danger of snapping it if he moves his mouth too fast.  His mouth tastes like blood, but the place his fangs cut open his lip has healed shut.  

"Thanks," he mumbles.  His hand is still warm.  "...Dutch...?"

"Dutch went to go get something to eat," says Texas's voice, and the hand in Mike's squeezes a little.  He still sounds kind of hoarse, but he also sounds like he's smiling.  Geez, Mike likes him so much.  "I gotcha though, Tiny.  You're good."

"Good," says Mike, and it's kind of dumb how intensely that helps, how much better he feels to know one of his Burners is still there with him.  He doesn't question it, just lies still, enjoying the warmth of Texas's hand.

"I know you're sleepy after a heal like that," says the healer, and he sounds kind of amused, "But I need you to move out, sir Smiling Dragon.  There are many in need of my services tonight."

"You don't have to use semi-formal with me," Mike says, still a little bleary. 

"And you don't gotta point out forms all out loud in people's faces like you're a hick, but you do," Texas snorts.  "Didn't nobody ever teach you how to do manners, Mike?  Big Texas is gonna have to school you some time."

"I'll stick with Julie," Mike says immediately, and laughs as Texas growls at him and pulls him up to noogie him.  It makes his head hurt, but it's also great.  He's great.  Which is probably why instead of punching Texas in the ribs and wrestling him around, Mike just kind of wraps both arms around Texas's broad chest and clings, pressing his cheek against Texas's collarbone.  Texas jumps and then laughs again and loosens his hold, ruffling up Mike's hair.  His hands are rough and dirty and calloused and it feels really nice anyway, when he wraps one hand around the back of Mike's neck and just holds on, holding him steady.    

"Awwww, you missed Texas, huh," he says, and scritches his nails in the roots of MIke's hair.  "...That's cool, makes sense, I'm pretty great."

"Mm," says Mike, because this is comfortable as heck.  Healing has always left him kind of fuzzy and tired, but in the wake of all three of the Burners using his magic all at once he's feeling especially wrung-out and foggy.  

"Texas won't use your fire rock so much next time," says Texas, and stands up, pulling Mike up with him.  "Come on, let's go put some food in your face."

Mike groans and then straightens up obediently, following Texas, pulling his clothes and hair into order and trying to clear the cobwebs out of his head.  He makes it out of the tent and into the warm summer air before he realizes abruptly what Texas said and stumbles.  "Uh--" he says, "--it doesn't matter.  To me, how much you use that stone, it's a present.  It's yours now, why would I care?"

Texas glances back at him and frowns like Mike's an idiot.  "Uh...yeah," he says.  "Uh-huh, right.  But I'm not gonna use it as much next time.  So whatever."

Mike opens his mouth--stops.  Closes it again.  Texas doesn't know.  He can't know, he doesn't know.  How would he even have figured it out?  Mike's been so careful, and Texas is a lot of stuff but good at figuring out hints isn't really one of them.   Mike’s safe, he’s okay.  Texas doesn’t know.  He can’t.

The camp the Raymanthians have set up is bustling.  Mike must have been in the healer’s tent for a solid couple of hours, because the sun is well on its way up toward noon.  The air smells like cooking food and horses and a lot of people all crammed in the same small space.  It’s familiar, and it’s been a while.  Mike takes a deep breath, tastes mages and soldiers and farmers in the air, strains of metal and armor-polish and magic and paper and earth and blood. 

“I know, right?” says Texas.  “Watch out, lunch, here comes _Texas!_   Hoyah!”

Mike lets himself be pulled to the biggest fire, in the middle of the camp.  It’s hot, almost stiflingly—it’s still July, after all, and the sun is beating down.  Ruby is kneeling next to the fire, cheeks pink from the heat and eyes fixed very intently on some kind of bird that’s roasting slowly over the fire.   Somebody else has set up a grill and is making leftover Fourth Day sausages.  She glances up when Mike settles down next to the fire, enjoying the roll of dry, fiery heat off the flames—gives him a sudden, startling smile.

“He lives!” she says, and she sounds genuinely pleased.  “Sir, you are a madman.”

“You flatterer,” Mike says, and pats Texas’s leg.  “I’m okay, big guy.  You wanna go find something to eat?”

“On it!” Texas says, and takes off.  Mike grins after him for a second, then turns back to Ruby.

“…We got everybody out?”

“We did.”  Ruby has a bandage around her leg, and she winces a little as she moves, but she looks like she’s in really good spirits.  “Many injuries, one or two quite grievous, but they are expected to pull through.”

Mike breathes out, long and slow.  “Geez.  Good!  Cool, okay.”

Ruby half-laughs.  “Spare some concern for your own injuries.”

“I’m concerned!  I’m concerned.”   Mike can’t hide a grin, and for a minute they just sit there, letting the heat beat over them.  “…you were great out there.  Y’know, just…by the way.  I can see why you’re the captain of the guard, now.”

“You couldn’t before?” Ruby raises her eyebrows sharply, fixing Mike with a very dangerous look.  Mike raises his hands, kicking himself.

“No, I just—that’s not what I meant.”  Come _on,_ Mike, get it together.  “Listen, you guys remember I’m from—from Deluxe, right?  The only captains I ever saw were…thirty, forty, the generals and commanders were all old guys.  Kane doesn’t really go in for lady knights, even, and even if he did, we would’ve both been too young to be commanders.  So yeah, I guess I didn’t get it.  I do now.”

“Well.”  Ruby settles back, mollified.  She hesitates a second then finishes, quietly, “…well.  We’re all that’s left.”

That’s what Chuck said, too.  Mike nods to himself, turns his face back to the fire and feels the sun beat down on his back. 

“What actually _happened_ here?”

Ruby makes a faint little hissing sound between her teeth.  Mike doesn’t flinch, just stares into the fire, letting her have time, letting her figure it out. 

“…Mad Dog wanted to be Kane,” she says finally, quietly.  There’s no trace of formality in her voice, for the first time since Mike met her.  “He found a dragon, collared it, and…I don’t know if it was just power or if he was crazy already, but he started attacking _everybody_.  Anybody he could reach, just, starting wars on every border.”

Mike can imagine what Kane would have said if somebody had suggested war on every front as an expansion strategy.  He swallows, keeps his voice flat and even.  “Guessing that didn’t go so good for him.  Or you guys.”

“We didn’t have a choice.”  Ruby’s hand comes to the hilt of her sword, working there, like she’s ready to draw it on some invisible enemy.  “He set his dragon loose on the people he attacked, and everybody…retaliated.  You weren’t supposed to do that.”

 _Set his dragon loose on them._   Mike digs a nail into his palm, focuses on the sting in his hand instead of the throb in his chest.  Ruby doesn’t look much happier.  Her head is down, eyes fixed on the fire. 

“And then…Lord Vanquisher killed the dragon.”

“…yeah.”  Ruby sighs.  “He doesn’t like it to be discussed.”

“I—no, I get that.”  The curiosity _burns,_ though.  Mike jitters for a second.  “…did he kill the other dragons too?  Or…scare them off, or what?”

“Nobody knows.”  Ruby sighs.  “He’s a very private king, Sir Chilton.  The Duke…doesn’t deny it, when people ask, but he doesn’t give out answers either.”  Her mouth twists a little, half a grimace.  “I guess…there has to be somebody to help guide his majesty.  An experienced advisor.”

“He…he is pretty young,” Mike hazards, and then throws caution to the winds.  “So!  Uh…where’s he from, again?”

“I don’t know,” says Ruby.  Mike squints at her dubiously—Ruby shrugs.  “Nobody knows much about where he came from, before he killed the dragon.” She throws Mike another pointed look, abruptly defensive.  “—not that he’s any less our king for that.  He may be young, but…so are we.  He’s ours.”

“No, no, I know.”  Mike leans in, back prickling.  “What, he just…showed up out of nowhere?”

“Mad Dog had many mages under his control,”  says Ruby, tersely semi-formal again.  So, that’s a “yes”.  Mike nods, frowning to himself.  “There are several who say they saw him among the other war-mages in Mad Dog’s camps, even so far as to call him their former commander.  But…who would not fain be known as a soldier of Lord Vanquisher _before it was cool?_ ”  She rolls her eyes.  “His majesty has not made public a connection to any of them.”

“What about the Duke?” Mike says.

Ruby blinks, apparently startled.  “What about him indeed?”

“Had anybody seen him?” Mike presses, “Before Ch—before his majesty killed the dragon?”

“The Duke came to us from places far distant,” says Ruby.  “He was known to walk Mad Dog’s camp.  A broker of information and of weaponry, and spellcraft Mad Dog would as soon his mages not know.  And that was wisdom on The Conqueror’s part, for once.  We made great use of the bellicose arts we learned, once we rose up against him.”  Her grin takes on an edge of vicious satisfaction.  Mike…remembers that feeling.  Knows it pretty well.  He can’t help but grin back.

\--

The rest of the day is full of talking.  Mike eats most of an entire roasted duck, visits the former hostages with Ruby and the other Burners, eats a couple sausages, sees Dutch off with a comm and a scrying spell to scout, has half a loaf of bread, goes through some more court formal with Julie.  By the time Dutch gets back, the sky is starting to go dusky purple-blue on the eastern horizon, and Mike sounds as hoarse as Texas after a full day of firebreathing. 

“They really ran,” Dutch reports when he lands, and settles down next to the fire to warm his hands.  “We can try to chase ‘em down if you want, but they didn’t even stop to make camp.  I only caught up because I was flyin’.”

“Mm.”  Ruby frowns, glances at Mike.  Mike puts down the sandwich he’s holding, swallows with an effort and tries to look like a professional. 

“Are they gonna come back?” he says, and wipes his mouth.  “—sorry.”

“They may yet,” Ruby says, politely ignoring it as Mike scrubs mustard off his face.  “They have nowhere else to go, and yet think of this kingdom as their own.”

“So we should track ‘em down and beat ‘em so good they never come back,” Texas says.

“Or fortify the borders and catch them before they can invade again.”  Julie is twirling a lock of her hair around one finger, the only visible sign that she’s as tired and stressed as Mike is.  “We don’t have the people or the time to follow them across this terrain, and the hostages need to get back to safety.”

“We can’t just keep letting them pick at our borders, though.”  Mike leans over the map of the kingdom one of the militia has helpfully supplied, head swimming a little, doggedly trying to focus on the landmarks.  “I thought there were alarm spells around the border of the kingdom, how did we not know this was coming?”

“The spells were down,” volunteers a small voice. 

Mike jumps, stares around, and then looks down and sees one of the hostages looking out from under the table at him.  The kid seems to realize his mistake as soon as he speaks—he shrinks down a little under the table, guilty.  “…sorry, Sir Smiling Dragon.”

“What are you doing down there?” Ruby demands.  “This is a war council—”

“Hold up a second,” says Mike, and reaches down to pick the kid up, lifting him effortlessly off his feet and setting him down on the edge of the table so they’re on eye-level.  “Hi.  I’m Mike.”

“I’m Phillip,” says the kid, who looks frankly star-struck. 

“Hi Phillip.”  Mike grins, bright and friendly.  “How do you know about the borders goin’ down?”

“The guards were talking about it,” says Phillip.  “They thought you guys wouldn’t know they were there, ‘cause they thought all the spells were down and they’d caught everybody who tried to run.   The spells were only shut off for like an hour.”

“As if they could fool the _Lord Vanquisher_ with such cowardly tactics,” Ruby snorts, and Phillip nods enthusiastically. 

“Right?!  He’s so cool—”

“Phillip!  Buddy, need you to focus right now.”  Mike squeezes the kid’s shoulders, pulling his attention again.  “What else did they say?  Do you know how they figured out the wards were turned off?”

“Dunno,” says Phillip.  “Sorry, sir.  Just somebody told them they were gonna be, and…I guess they had a weapon?  Or some kinda really super cool super-soldier, I dunno.”  He puts on a dull, gleeful voice.  “… _’when they show up they’re gonna be sorry, they got no idea what they’re messin’ with this time_ ’.  Just stuff like that.”

“Okay.”  Mike frowns, taking that in.  Thinks about the gleaming stone, the way it vanished when he reached for it.  “…Okay.  Well, you better get goin’.” he spares Phillip a grin and helps him back down off the table.  “Thanks for the help.”

“Yessir!” says Phillip breathlessly.  “Thanks, sir!”

It kind of hurts, being called that.  Kind of feels really good.  Mike nudges the boy’s shoulder and turns back to the rest of the militia as he takes off.  “…who would know the wards were going down?”

There’s an uneasy murmur.  Glances exchanged around the circle. 

“Not many people,” says Ruby finally, hard and quiet.  “Not very many at all.  The king, and a select few others.”

 _Like the Duke?_  Mike doesn’t say.  It’s seriously hard to keep the words in.  He tries anyway.  “We need a list of the people who would know,” he says.  “And we need to talk to his majesty.”

“He’ll be in his quarters by now,” says Ruby, and squints at the sunset.  “He’s not to be disturbed.  We can leave a message with the Duke, to be—”

“The less people this goes through, the better,” says Mike firmly.  “We can tell him as soon as he wakes up tomorrow.  Let the guards on the palace know they need to double their patrols on the palace, and we’ll talk to Lord Vanquisher in the morning.  Are you _sure_ we can’t call—”

“He gives his command implicitly to his chief advisor after sundown,” says Ruby, and shrugs at Mike’s frustrated grimace.  “Every king must have their oddity, Sir Chilton.  We call the Duke, or we don’t call at all.”

“Fine.”  Mike sighs out a breath, shakes his head.  “In the morning.  Okay.”

There’s a second where he’s pretty sure somebody’s going to argue.  But then Ruby looks away from him, lips thin, and says “…very well.”  The tension breaks.

The other Burners gather around Mike as soon as the meeting breaks up, watching him with expressions ranging from suspicious to skeptical to annoyed.  “We gotta go after them though,” Texas is already saying.

“No, we don’t,” Dutch says.  “We’d never catch them.” Then, to Mike, “…What are you thinkin’?  You think somebody in the palace is a leak?”

“You think it’s the Duke,” says Julie, quiet and sure.

“What.”  Texas laughs.  “That guy?  He’s a dick, but he’s all _faithful advisor_ and _cool dad_ and stuff, the king would totally know if he was evil.”

“He’s not Chuck’s dad,” Mike says—kind of snaps, actually.  Julie raises a brow at him behind her hair, and Mike subsides again, a self-conscious wash of heat sweeping his face.  “Well he’s _not._ He’s a jerk.”

“Uh, chyeah, I mean not his _dad_ dad, but—”

“He’s definitely a jerk,” Dutch agrees, “But a traitor?  I dunno, man.  The king’s a pretty careful guy.”

“Or he owes the Duke for somethin’,” Texas cuts back in.  “Debts make people dumb.  That’s why Texas—”

“Isn’t allowed to gamble anymore?” Julie says dryly.  Texas deflates a little, scowling.  “There might be something to that, though.  The Duke must have done _something_ to earn his trust.  I’ll have to do some digging.  If…Mike?”

Mike jumps a little.   “Huh?”

“What are you thinking?” Julie says suspiciously.  Mike blinks at her innocently.

“Thinking?”

“Yeah, cowboy, what are you going to do?”

“Who says I’m gonna do anything?” says Mike, and then “We should get to bed if we’re getting up early tomorrow.”

Julie gives him a look, eyes flashing emphatic green-gold, and Mike shivers a little at the feeling of his powers being used, his own Sight being turned on him—then Julie sighs and shrugs, turning away.  “Whatever,” she says.  “Sure, Mike, that sounds true.”

Aw, well now he feels like a jerk.  “I’m just gonna…try to call him,” Mike admits.  “Just once!  Just, he needs to know.”

Julie turns back to him, and Mike feels that embarrassed heat rise rapidly back up in his cheeks at the look she gives him.  But she looks a lot less frustrated when she says “...he probably won’t pick up.”

“I know, but—”

“Tiny’s gotta earn his fancy king-presents somehow,” Texas says firmly, and Dutch breaks into helpless laughter, burying his face in his hands. “Come on, Lisa, that’s how it _works._ Gotta earn that sugar.  Obviously you never had a cool sugar daddy, this is basic stuff.”

“He’s not my—!” Mike starts, and then waves the point off.  “I’m goin’ to bed.”

“Make sure you wear the _hot_ shirt when you call him!” Julie calls after him.  “The really tight one!”

“That’s all of his shirts,” Dutch says, and the last thing Mike hears is Texas laughing, loud and rough and unabashedly gleeful, before he picks out a familiar ragged tent by the edge of the camp and hurries off to throw himself inside. 

It’s not much for sleeping quarters—an ancient camping tent with a zipper that broke ages ago and a flap that has to be tied shut with old shoelaces—but it’s familiar.  Somebody has put it up with way more care than Mike normally takes, and his pack and supplies are laid neatly against the wall.  Mike rolls out his sleeping bag, drops down on it with a groan and pulls his pack into his lap. 

The mirror is wrapped back up in the cloth it came with, and even with that added protection Mike has to think there’s some kind of magic that keeps it from breaking.  The surface is still flat and flawless, not a crack.  Mike picks up the mirror, turns it over in his hands…hesitates.

Is this…pushing it?

Is it, though?  But…hey, he’s friends with Chuck!  Chuck said it was cool to use, and he’d be okay talking to Mike, and yeah he’s locked up in his rooms right now, but maybe he’ll want to chat a little bit!  Unwind.  Maybe he’ll be okay with talking about…Mad Dog stuff, _dragon_ stuff—no.  No, Mike’s not gonna ask about that.  He’s gonna be friendly, and cool, and not ask about stuff Chuck doesn’t like to talk about. 

Mike nods to himself firmly, lifts up the mirror in front of him and says “…Chuck the Vanquisher.”

For a second, it seems like it’s not going to work.  Then, finally, the image fizzes and settles.  Mike leans in, already grinning, and then stops. 

The mirror seems to be lying flat on something—overhead, flickering light dances across the ceiling.  In the background, Mike can hear the sound of people talking, chattering, the distant sound of the palace courtyard full of people going about their business.

And in the foreground…

Lord Vanquisher is…well.  He’s not crying.  He’s taking great gulping, shuddering breaths, mumbling something inaudible between every gasp.  Mike leans forward, startled and upset, and hears _stupid_ and _fuck-up_ and _dumbass_.  Shudder, silence, another gasping breath.  _(Why did—think you could—_ fuck, _dammit_ …)

Mike is just about to say something when something clicks faintly and Chuck catches his breath.  A chair scrapes like he’s shoving it back, jumping up.   “Duke,” he says, choked and hoarse.  “I—I was just—”

“I know what you were doin’,” says the Duke’s voice, and Mike’s stomach twists, anticipating another stream of vitriol.  By the fast, panicky edge that creeps back into Chuck’s breathing, he’s expecting it too.  But it doesn’t come.  There’s just the sound of footsteps, a chair being moved.  “So?”

“…I…went outside.”

“Mmhm.”  A faint tap—Mike can almost imagine the Duke’s distant expression, the tap, tap, tap of his cane against the desk.  _Not_ slamming down, the same way he’s _not_ yelling.  It’s there, though, the threat.  It makes Mike’s neck prickle.  “…Lemme guess.”

“It was—nice.”  Chuck swallows convulsively, sniffs.  “It was good, I—but—”

“And then…what.  Somebody tried to knife you.” says the Duke.   “Educated guess.  Stop touching your face, you’re gettin’ blood everywhere.”

Chuck makes an unhappy little noise.  Mike’s spine snaps straight, electrified with fear and anger.  Chuck got attacked while Mike was gone?!  At the capitol?  He’s supposed to be safe there, he’s hurt?  That’s— _no,_ that’s not okay!

“ _I shouldn’t have gone out there,_ ” Chuck mumbles, tiny and trembling and miserable, and the Duke sighs.

“…No,” he says, still too loud and arrogant and—almost gentle.  “You shouldn’t’ve.  But you made it out alive.”

Chuck takes another breath, and this one…doesn’t quite shake as much.  “…Yeah,” he says.  “I’m alive.”

“What did you do?”

Chuck sniffs.  “…Burned him,” he says, and he sounds sick at the thought, but there’s a note of something like pride in his voice.  “He tried to choke me, but I got him in the—in the eye.  Then the gut.  Uh.  He dropped his knife.  But he was still up so I—kept on hitting him until he went down.”

“Oh, my boy.”  The Duke laughs, and for the first time since Mike arrived at court there’s no edge of mockery to the sound at all.   “You really do learn.  For what it’s worth, I would call _that_ a rousing success!”

“I screamed the whole time,” the king mumbles, and Mike’s chest does something cold and tight and painful at the shame in his voice.  The Duke snorts.

“Effect over aesthetic, kiddo,” he says, and his voice still has that strange, almost-soft edge to it.  Mike lowers the mirror, staring into nothing as something sour and hot boils at the back of his throat, and the Duke says  “…Now, that cut needs cleaned up before court tomorrow.  Can’t have your majesty’s face scratched up for your _adoring_ public, now can we?  C’mere.”

Chuck sniffs once, lets out a long, shuddering breath.  Then there’s the sound of a chair scraping, fabric shifting as he shuffles around in his seat. 

“Hwell, that’s a beauty,” The Duke says, apparently amused.  “What was he aiming for?”

“Trying to—!”  Chuck’s breath catches, a muffled noise of pain, and Mike’s hands tighten so hard on the mirror they shake for a second.  “Ssslit my throat.  I think.”  He sniffs again.  Clears his throat.  “S-sorry.  I’m not— _hh_ , sorry, I—”

“Oh, by all means, don’t hold back for my sake,” says the Duke dryly, and something clinks.  “I’m used to the waterworks by now.  Hold still.”

“But there’s nothing to _cry_ about, I’m hh _ah!_ Ow, ow ow ow—”

“Price you pay for beauty, kid.”  The Duke clicks his tongue.  “…not that this one won’t scar, ‘cause it will.  Hwhat can I say, I’m only a miracle-worker _sometimes_.”

“That’s—it’s—okay, that’s okay—”  Chuck’s voice wavers on the words, and Mike doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to hang up, wants to say something, can’t bear the thought of being caught here listening.  Can’t leave his king alone with that— _jerk_ , not sounding like that, like he’s about to break down.  “I’m just—it’s stupid, it’s _over,_ I—I’m okay.”

“And whoever they hired will definitely think twice before taking out a hit on you again,” the Duke says approvingly.   “What did I tell you?  _Go big._ You should have plenty of experience at that by now.”

“ _I hate it,_ ” Chuck mumbles, and drags in another breath that shudders.  “I _hate_ it, I just—Duke, I don’t wanna do this again—”

“Well if it makes you feel better,” says the Duke, and he doesn’t sound like he’s smiling.  There’s a tone to his voice Mike can’t place, doesn’t recognize.  Quiet and even and…dangerous, or kind, or both.  “You don’t have a choice.”

There’s a long second of silence.

“…Okay,” says Chuck finally, barely audible.

“Okay?”

“Y…yeah.”  A long, long slow breath.  “I’ve got it, I’m…good.”

 _“That’s_ what I’m talkin’ about!”  There’s a heavy sound—a back being slapped.  Lord Vanquisher yelps in shock.  “Get some sleep, Stretch.  It’ll do you good to go to bed with the sun for once.”

“I will,” says Chuck, and there’s a shaky smile in his voice.  “I…thanks, Duke.”

“Mmhm.”  The Duke yawns theatrically, somewhere farther off now, faint and muffled.  Says something Mike can’t make out, voice lowered, that makes Chuck laugh weakly. 

“You too,” he says.  “Yeah.  I—you too.”

Mike ends the call.

He flops back on his sleeping bag and lies there for a second, staring blankly at the ceiling of his tent, then the Duke’s voice insinuates its way back into his head, all strange and warm and sarcastic.  _Oh, my boy..._

Mike rolls over, pushes himself up and busies himself laying into his pillow with a will, teeth grinding.  There’s a whole mess of emotions roiling around in his gut, and he doesn’t know how to decipher them all the way.  He’s…angry, for some reason, and upset, more than he should be.  Sad?  Disgusted, wistful, angry.  So freakin’ angry. 

_I do trust in thee, Mike…_

Shoot, dammit.   Mike grits his teeth, shakes that thought away.  Chuck’s smart, he’s not like Mike.  He wouldn’t fall for some flattery and a couple of fatherly smiles like a _chump_.  The  only reason Mike fell for it is that he was a dragon in a human court, scared and _other_ and surrounded by people who would kill him if they knew what he was…

Mike thinks about Chuck’s uncertainty,  his flinching, the way he grimaces down at the silver scale of his breastplate.  Thinks about slit-pupil eyes like sapphires.  The glitter of blue and gold scales. 

This is the _worst._ Mike rolls over, snatches the mirror up again.  Stops.  He wants—to call, wants to ask Chuck to his face, just _ask—are you like me, is he, do you know what I am?  If you were, would you want me?  Would you want me more, want to put a collar on me, want to keep me safe from him?  Who am I_ safe _with?_

…But if Chuck is the same as Mike, a desperate freak, an animal fighting to fit in, what if he doesn’t want another dragon around?  Would he know what Mike was?  And if it’s not him, if it’s the Duke, Mike would be tipping his hand to a dragon-slayer, a fire-taker, might as well roll over and bare his neck for Lord Vanquisher’s sword…or collar.  There’s no _winning,_ like this.  He can’t ask.  He just can’t.

He doesn’t even know what to look for, that’s part of the problem.  Mike frowns up at the ceiling of his tent.  There have only ever been two people willing to talk to him about what dragons were like, what to look for, what to expect.  One of them was Kane, who was a _jerk_.  The other was Rayon, who was…biased.  Mike can’t ask Rayon—doesn’t even know where he is, now, all the dragons in the area have cleared out—and he sure as heck can’t ask Kane, even if he wanted to. 

Who would know about dragons?

There’s only a couple of options.  Mike sighs, pulls the mirror back into his lap and pushes himself up with a groan.  Thinks for a second, then holds the mirror up and says, very clearly, “Captain Thurman Ericsson.”

There’s a fizz of magic, and then a faint chime, and then a room swims into view; plain but nicely furnished, with windows facing out toward the river.  Mike appears to be looking out of some kind of wall-mirror, and Thurman is hurrying over, wearing a T-shirt and carrying a book in one hand.

“What, hello?” he says, and then “Sir—Chilton?” 

“Thurman!” Mike says, pleased.  “Hey, dude.  Look, sorry to call right now, I gotta ask you some questions”

Thurman pushes his glasses up his nose and squints at Mike through the mirror.  “How are you calling through the palace wards?”

“I got a really good spell.”  Mike waves that point off as Thurman opens his mouth again, brows furrowing.  “Look, what do you know about dragons?”

“About…?”  Thurman’s eyes widen a little.  “Um…I know a few bits and pieces, but I wouldn’t say I’m an expert.  Lord Vanquisher is the preeminent expert on dragon lore and biology in—”

Shoot.  Of course he is, _shoot._   “But he doesn’t want to talk to me about dragons,” says Mike, and is very aware as he says it that it comes out more than a little bit whiny.  Thurman snorts.

“Yeah, he’s…yeah.  Well, if he’ll let you into the royal library, he’s also got a bunch of books  about them.  He’s written a couple of research papers—”

“What kind of research papers?” It’s a vaguely startling thought—that somebody might be thinking about dragons that intently, writing papers about them.   “What about?”

“Oh, all sorts.”  Thurman scratches one ear vaguely.  “Um…social structures, linguistics, taming and bellicose arts, dragon stones…I don’t know how where he’s getting all this stuff from, but he sounds pretty sure of his facts when he writes.  You should read them, it’s interesting stuff.”

“Dragon stones are a myth,” says Mike, and his voice sounds very strange to his own ears, distant and strangled.  Thurman blinks, then laughs.

“Yeah, I know!  Kid stuff, right?  But he seems to think the story’s gotta have come from somewhere.  He’s got a whole paper about how horrible it would be to have your soul just ripped out of—”

“Yeah,”  says Mike.  “Yeah, okay, cool.  Thanks.”

“No problem.”  Thurman squints at him, adjusting his glasses.  “…you okay?”

“Fine,” says Mike, and tries to smile.  “Yeah.  Thanks.  Uh…bye.”

The mirror goes dark again.  Mike stares at his own face, reflected back at him from the glass.  The faint point to his ears, the hint of extra sharpness to his canines, the one or two almost-translucent scales scattered across his cheekbones.  He could get a glamour to cover them up, a lot of people do it.  Half-mer, a quarter selkie, an eighth fae.  But—no.  Nobody knows.  And hiding it at this point would be even more suspicious.  Better not to risk drawing attention to it, especially not with the Duke sniffing around.

Mike just has to keep doing what he’s been doing, he thinks to himself as he sets his stuff up around him, pulls his sleeping bag into a rough pile without thinking about it and hollows out a spot in the middle.  He just has to act human, he’s good at that. 

Mike curls up  in the middle of his nest, pulls his pack close to his chest where he can keep it safe, and falls asleep missing his flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Dragons have had more extensive interaction with humans than almost any other species, but they remain almost entirely unstudied. Literary, historical and verbal accounts of dragon behavior provide conflicting information, much of which may actually be apocryphal. Looking at the body of research as a whole, the most likely explanation seems to be that dragons, like humans, do not have a single "draconic experience" and in fact live the same wide variety of lives as their human counterparts; social backgrounds, world-views, sexual and romantic preferences and even gender presentation (Applebee, 47 PC, p. 32)."_  
>  _"This essay serves as a compilation and review of the known lived experience of dragons, their lifestyles and interactions with their own species and others._ **Ad altiora tendo.** "  
> \--Excerpt from untitled research compilation, stacked on top of a pile of very old books in the corner of Lord Vanquisher's private study.


	6. Rising Winds, Sleeping Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Vanquisher takes advantage of some basic meteorology and it's nothing special, really. It's just science. Anybody could do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _I can, I will, I have to. I can, I will, I have to. I can, I will, I have to. I can, I will, I have to...._ "  
> \-- written repeatedly on a piece of paper on the desk of Lord Vanquisher's private study

 Mike calls the palace first thing the next day.

He’s kind of…nervous, honestly, as the call goes through.  Like he’s going to hear Lord Vanquisher not-crying again, have to listen to the Duke being awfully, cruelly gentle.  But instead the king picks up almost immediately, looking preoccupied.  There’s a broad glass window behind him, a distant view of the city, and people are talking in the background of the call.  There’s no sign of a cut on his face, but…when Mike looks really close, there’s a strip of skin over one eyebrow and down across the bridge of his nose where his freckles are missing.  An illusion. 

Lord Vanquisher blinks when he sees who’s calling him, and then glances around and stands up.  “I must take my leave,” he says to somebody Mike can’t see.  “I will give your suggestions due consideration.  Sir Smiling Dragon, what news?” 

He must be somewhere people can see him.  Mike glances around his tent, and then feels like a dumbass.  Nobody’s there, nobody’s listening.  “Have you…yet received news of our mission?” he tries, and Chuck’s eyebrows rise a little.  He looks up, and there’s a creak like a door—his face is abruptly cast into shadow as he steps through into somewhere darker, more quiet.

“No?”  He says.  “I just woke up, Mike.”

“Right, yeah.”  Mike relaxes a little.  “Well, we got everybody back safe.” 

Chuck breathes out a long, long sigh and nods, closing his eyes for a second.  Geez, he looks _so tired._   “Good,” he says.  “God, yes, awesome.  Okay.  And you’re…you’re not hurt, nobody’s…?”

“I’m fine,” says Mike.

“Your face is all bruised,” says Chuck, who’s way too perceptive for his own good. 

“Somebody…hit me in the face,” says Mike.  “…With a baseball bat.  It’s cool, I’m fine.  Anyway…”

Chuck listens as he runs through the basics of what happened—when he reaches the dragon stone, Mike…hesitates. 

“She had…some kind of enchanted gem,” he says finally, and wets his lips.  His mouth is dry, he can’t quite seem to meet Chuck’s eyes.  “I don’t know what it was going to do, she started to use it and then somebody shot her.”

“Hm.”  Chuck frowns.  “Can I see?”

“It…”  God, this sounds suspicious and fake even to his own ears.  “…it vanished, sire.  When I went to pick it up, I mean.  Somebody had some kind of recall spell on it.”

Chuck’s frown deepens.  Some part of Mike cringes a little.  But Chuck doesn’t dismiss him, cold and authoritative, and he doesn’t yell.  Instead he drags a hand down his face and shakes his head. “Shit,” he says, “I hate magic sometimes.”

It’s such an un-Kane-like thing to say, Mike has to laugh.  Lord Vanquisher glances up at him and then smiles too, a little wanly.  “Sorry,” he says.  “Uh—yeah, that’s…not the best news I’ve had today.  Keep an eye out for anything else like that, okay?”  He hesitates.  “…What did it look like?”

“Just a…just a stone,” says Mike, and keeps his voice as even and cool as he can.  “Not faceted, kinda blue-green colored.  Somebody put it in some kind of badge…brooch…thing.”

“And had you ever…seen anything like it?”

Mike’s heart thuds painfully up into his throat.  “Sire?” he says.

“It sounds like the stones your Burners have,” Chuck says.

“I—no.  I mean, I don’t know.”  Everything in Mike is screaming at him to just _end the call,_ he shouldn’t have told him, he shouldn’t have started this—but if he stops now Chuck’s going to _know_ something’s wrong, might even call him back and demand the truth and Mike—Mike swore to follow his orders.  “Maybe.”

“Okay.”  Chuck nods, and then looks at Mike for a second, not frowning any more, just steady and a little bit worried.  “…are you sure you’re okay?”

The anxious knot in Mike’s chest clashes painfully with a kind of warm, startled affection.  “Yeah,” he says, half a sigh.  “Yeah.  I’m…fine.”

“Okay.”  The king waves a hand, and whatever medium he’s scrying through floats up into the air, hovering with him as he walks.  “So somebody is selling bellicose artifacts to Bardonia.   That’s….great.” 

Oh geez, and Mike hasn’t even started on the second thing he was going to say yet.  “Uh, yeah,” he says, and then pauses, uncertain, as his eyes fall on the hidden wound across Chuck’s face.  Chuck glances up at him, waiting.  “They also…somebody told them that—that the wards around the kingdom were going to be down.  They came through while they were being re-cast, that’s how we didn’t know about it.”

Chuck’s expression flickers through a handful of different emotions—surprise and confusion and thoughtfulness and then, for just a second, something tight and uncertain and unhappy.  Then he shakes his head, and when he speaks again his voice is steady and his face is calm, almost blank.

“…there are ways to tell if a barrier is still secure,” he says.  “They must have been—testing it, waiting for it to go down.”

“But—sire, I don’t think—”

“They must have,” says Lord Vanquisher, a little louder, “because I do not believe any of my court to be traitors, Sir Chilton.”

The court formal rings on Mike’s nerves like a bell.  He opens his mouth to protest again—shuts it. 

“I know,” he says, and then straightens his shoulders, holds his head high.  “…I understand, sire.  My apologies.”

Chuck nods, reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, and for a long second neither of them moves or speaks.  Then, finally, he lowers his hand and straightens up again. 

“I didn’t mean to snap,” he says.  “You’re just reporting—”

“No!  No, your majesty, it’s—I was outta line.”  Even if he was right, Mike knows better than to push when a king doesn’t want to hear what he has to say.  He’s out of practice in more ways than one, it looks like.  “I just…want you to be safe.”

Chuck makes a sort of huffing noise that might be a laugh or might be a sigh.  His cheeks look a little pink, though, which feels like a victory.  “I’m as safe here as any man has ever been,” he says.  “You worry about you, Mike.  Don’t get hit in the face with any more bats.”

“Hey, my face can take a beating,” Mike says, grinning now.  “It’s your majesty’s that should be preserved.  It’d be a real shame to mess that up.”

For a second he freezes, because—shoot, he wasn’t going to say that, Chuck’s the _king_ and Mike shouldn’t be flirting with him, now.  But Chuck just goes “Wh—oh, shut up!” flustered and still blushing and not like he wants Mike to actually stop.  And…maybe it’s okay. 

… _what about dashing knights errant, Julie?_ Mike grins like he’s not nervous, wiggles his eyebrows behind his bangs.  “I beg your pardon,” he says humbly.  “…your ruggedly handsome majesty.”

“Stoppit!” says the king severely, but his voice is noticeably higher and squeakier than it was and his mouth keeps twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.  “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I was born that way, sire.”

“Nobody is _born_ an embarrassing, smart-mouthed dork _,_ ” Chuck says, but some of the drawn look has faded out of his face, and his eyes look a lot warmer when he grins at Mike through the mirror.  “…I’m exiling you.  Don’t bother coming back.”

“Aww, come on.”  The words make a cold jolt twist at Mike’s gut—but Chuck’s still smiling, it was a joke.  It’s just a joke.  “You gotta let me come back, or else how am I gonna….make it up to you?”

Chuck starts to laugh, a startled, breathless kind of noise, but it trails off in the middle.  His eyes linger on Mike’s face, searching, and whatever he finds there makes his mouth fall open a little; the color that had been fading in his cheeks rising back up with a vengeance. 

This is an even stupider time than usual to really want to kiss him.  Mike wants to anyway. 

“…Well,” says Chuck finally, spasmodically, and swallows hard.  Chews on his lip for a second like there’s something he wants to say and then shakes his head sharply.  “Well, uh, you—you probably have—stuff to do, so.  Um.”

“Uh…yeah,” says Mike distantly.  God, his lips look soft.  “Sure.”

“Right,” says Chuck, and reaches out, plucking Mike’s call back out of the air, flustered.  “Right!  Right, yeah, uh, so I’ll let you—get to work on those.  Things.  On that stuff, you need to do.  Farewell!  I mean—bye, Mike!”

He ends the call. 

Mike stares at the mirror for another couple of seconds, and then flops back down onto his sleeping bag, buries his face in the fabric and groans until he runs out of air. This is dumb.  This is just.  Really, really dumb, from so many angles.  Mike’s not dumb, and he’s not gonna let himself think about the way the king looked at him, eyes wide and uncertain, biting his lip red—

Dammit.

\--

“You look well-rested,” Julie says brightly, when Mike comes slinking out of camp fifteen minutes later, tucking in his shirt and finger-combing his hair into some kind of order.  “Did you talk to the king?”

God, how does she do that?  “Yeah,” Mike says, because there’s no point in denying it—and no reason to, whatever, yes, he talked to the king. 

“And?”

“Just…let him know what was up.”  Mike shrugs airily, and Julie goes “Mmm” and gives him a look like under her bangs she’s raising her eyebrows at him.  Mike stares back, and refuses to acknowledge how warm his face feels.  He’s…still kind of worked up, and he can’t afford to let his eyes linger on the sweep of Julie’s eyelashes or the drape of the collar of her shirt or—or anything else.  Nothing else, he’s not looking at _anything._

“Well, if he doesn’t have any orders, we were thinking we’d get the town set back up again,” says Julie, and turns back to the table she was bent over when Mike arrived, tracing a finger along the kingdom’s border.  “The Bardonians won’t have been able to get all the way back out of the kingdom again—not without breaking through by force, and if that had happened his majesty would’ve known.  Pretty sure he would have mentioned it to you.”

“Uh—uh, yeah.”  Okay, planning, he can do that.  He can focus.  Mike comes around the other side of the table and takes in the map, the markers where small towns have sprung up, the glowing lines marking wards and traps.  “Okay, so—they’re still in the kingdom, then.”

“Yes,” says Julie grimly, “And we’re probably going to have to deal with that, before we go back to the capitol.  I still think we were right not to go chasing after them, but we still have to deal with them before they can get reinforcements or escape.  We’re guessing they’re somewhere in _here._ ”  She draws a glowing line on the map.  “…there’s this— _phenomenally_ ancient church in an old salt mine, up here to the north.  Ruby thinks they may be headed there.  It’s pretty defensible, and they wouldn’t have to cross the wards or pass through any towns to get there.”

“Uh-huh.”  Mike frowns.  “But the wilds are so much harder to patrol, are we sure…”

They debate for a solid hour.  Mike is pretty sure nobody would go running to an underground deathtrap, defensible or not—Julie points out that Mike just plain hates being underground, and for somebody who doesn’t have that problem, the caves are a great place to hole up and lick their wounds. 

The argument finally ends when one of the former hostages, a young woman with a missing eye, comes edging over and asks, very politely, if Sir Smiling Dragon would consider coming over to the square.

The square, it turns out, has been turned into a big, impromptu battle arena.  Somebody—several somebodies, by the size of the circle—has drawn a huge spell-form on the ground, and the asphalt is strangely soft underfoot, like a giant cushion.   Texas is in the middle of it, walking a young man through a shoulder throw while what looks like most of the town watches with rapt interest. 

“—with your hips, not your back,” he says.  “Slap the ground when you hit it, like I was showin’ you.  Three-two-one TEXAS!!!”

The young man yelps as he’s yanked off his feet, soaring through the air and landing on his back with a _thud._ He rolls with it pretty well, slaps the ground and comes up winded but grinning.

“Mike!” Texas shouts, and waves as the man he threw scrambles to his feet.  “Hey, come help me show these dweebs how to throw punches!”

“Sir Lone Star is a very good teacher,” says the woman who pulled Mike away from the map, a little sheepishly, “But he’s, um…there aren’t a lot of people in our village who have the muscle to pull off what he does?  We thought you might be, like, um…”

Yeah, okay, that’s fair.  Mike’s nowhere near as buff as Texas is.  He’s also not human, but there’s not really any good way to bring that up.  “Sure!” he says, and rolls his shoulders.  “Yeah, I’ll show you guys some moves.”

“That sounds like my cue to go find something to do,” says Julie, a little dryly.  “Not that I don’t love watching you and Texas show off, Cowboy, but I think I’ll be more helpful somewhere else.  Where’s Sir Gordy?”

“The Manticore?”  The woman grins.  “He’s painting us a guardian!”

She gestures across the city square, and Mike cranes his neck and grins at the sight of Dutch, perched on a creaky-looking scaffold in his favorite painting shirt.  As Mike watches, he sweeps a hand over the wall in a wash of color, and a larger-than-life painting of Ruby shimmers and then goes dark again.

“He says if anybody attacks the town, the painting will run to the capitol and warn people,” says the woman, and shakes her head.  “I’ve never heard of a spell like that.”

“That’s because it’s a Dutch original,” says Julie, and she sounds as proud as Mike feels, smiling at Dutch across the square.  “…I think I’ll go see if he needs any help over there.  Always nice to have another pair of hands for big spell-forms.  Go on,  _Smiling Dragon,_ go do what you do.”

“Milady,” Mike says, and Julie sticks out her tongue at him and then slips away into the crowd in the direction of the magical mural.

Mike spends most of the morning practicing throws and flips and punches with the former hostages, trading out with Texas whenever Texas starts to get frustrated or Mike starts to get twitchy doing the same exercises over and over.  Across the square from him, Dutch paints two more giant murals, with Julie trailing behind him reinforcing spells as he goes.  One of Ruby, one of Thurman--another well-known face, master of ceremonies, apparently—and last but not least, a head taller than either of the other two, a towering  painting of Lord Vanquisher himself.

Mike wanders over to watch Dutch put the finishing touches on; Dutch holds up his hands, forming a rough frame out of them, and a shimmering reflection of himself appears on the scaffold in front of him.  He reaches out, snags a handful of the darkness of his hair, the brown of his skin, the vivid red tattooed vines curling lazily on his neck.  The colors swim like smoke in his hands, but when he brings his hands to the wall the color flows down it like liquid; black for the black of Ruby’s eyes, red for Thurman’s hair.  Brown splattering out into a hundred starburst-freckles on Lord Vanquisher’s quiet, solemn face.   

Dutch keeps his hands pressed to the wall for another long second, and Mike squints as bright light flares for a second; spell-forms worked into Ruby’s breastplate, the open tome in Thurman’s hands, and the silver shield on Lord Vanquisher’s arm.  Then the light fades, and Dutch sits down very abruptly on the scaffolding, letting out a sharp breath Mike can hear even from the ground. 

“You okay up there, buddy?” he calls up, and Dutch turns to look back at him and grins, a little shakily.  “They look great!”

“Thanks,” Dutch says, and eases his way to the edge of the platform.  Mike grins and opens his arms, and Dutch rolls his eyes but doesn’t hesitate before sliding off the side of the scaffolding.  Mike catches his weight easily, goes _oof_ for the benefit of the people watching, and grins down at Dutch.

“Seriously,” he says.  “I don’t know a lot about art, but that’s some good stuff.”

“Quit it, man,” says Dutch, but not like he really minds.  He’s not trying to swing his legs out of Mike’s grasp, either—his skin and hair look weirdly faded, like they always do after he makes a guardian painting, and the red ink he pulled color from is motionless, dull.  “It’s not art from the heart, y’know?  It’s just work stuff.”

“But it’s cool-lookin’ work stuff!” Mike insists, and Dutch shakes his head and shoves weakly until Mike lowers him carefully to the ground.  “It’s not as cool as the stuff you make for fun, but—nice.”

“…Yeah,” says Dutch, and looks up at the figures towering over him, nodding slowly to himself.  “…mm.  Yeah, ‘s not bad.  Pretty cool.”

He looks tired and worn and kind of unsteady on his feet still.  Mike puts an arm around his shoulder, and resists the urge to scoop him up off his feet again and hold onto him really tight.  When his Burners are vulnerable, some part of him always just wants him to lie on them, over them, around them, curl up with them and growl at anything that comes close while they rest and heal.  But that’s dumb, and he’s not going to do that.  So instead he just holds onto Dutch and lets him lean a little on Mike’s shoulder as they pick their way through the square. 

“I can find you some food,” Mike says, when they finally reach some benches near the impromptu militia campsite.  Dutch sinks down onto the bench, stretches and sighs.  “Or, do you wanna go get some sleep?  Or, I mean…”

“Man, I’m  _fine,_ ” Dutch says, grinning, and squeezes Mike’s arm once before leaning back into the bench and closing his eyes for a second.  “ _…mmm._ It’s a nice day.  I might go flying, actually.  See if I can get an eye in the sky, figure out where our nasty friends are hiding.  Is that, uh.  Cool with you?”

It’s not the greatest news Mike has heard all day.  Not only can he not protect Dutch when he’s up there, he’s still kind of tired from yesterday’s battle.  But…

“I’m not in charge of you, dude,” he says, and Dutch sighs and kind of shrug-nods.  “You can fly if you want.”

“But it—” Dutch starts, and then shakes his head.  “…yeah, okay.  How about you get some rest while I’m gone, man?  You still look kinda …” he hesitates, trailing off, and then shrugs.  “You had a broken jaw yesterday, that’s all I’m sayin’.  You shouldn’t push too hard, okay?”

“I’m--oh," says Mike, startled.  “I—no, I mean, I’m fine, now.”

“Uh-huh.”  Dutch’s hand touches his face, poking gently at the places his jaw still hurts—Mike jumps a little, torn between the urge to pull away from the ache and the urge to press into his hand and hum happily.  “Your face still looks pretty colorful.  I know you heal fast, but you gotta go easy on breaks like that, okay?"

"I mean," Mike starts, fully intending to argue, and Dutch's hand shifts, fingernails dragging a little at the nape of Mike's neck.  He loses the track of what he was about to say abruptly, blinks and shivers.  "I, uh.  I...okay."

"Cool."  Dutch pats the back of his neck one more time and then drops his hand away, pushing himself up off the bench.  "Take it easy for a couple of hours, dude.  You worked for it."

Dutch summons up the wings slowly this time, and it's a familiar bittersweet feeling.  Getting something back that he lost, but distant and second-hand and temporary.  His but not his, never his again.

"There you go," Dutch is saying, somewhere nearby and far away.  His hands ease Mike back onto the bench as a vicious cramp snaps across his shoulders, as his body shivers to flex muscles it doesn't have any more.  "There you go, man.  You just chill out here.  I'll be right back."

Mike chills out there.  

He's not really sure how long he's sitting there--at some point, a steady, fragile figure sits down next to him and puts an arm around him, and Mike knows it's Julie.  Can smell her hair.  He leans into her, breathing through the pull in the middle of his chest, and blinks slowly at nothing.  

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there when the steady pull suddenly becomes much sharper, really fast.  Mike sits up fast, pressing a hand to his diaphragm, gasping.  Julie sits up too, one hand closing on his wrist.  “Mike?”

“I think there’s—trouble,” says Mike, and stares up at the sky.  “I don’t—Dutch is coming back.”

“Trouble?”

“Yeah, just…” he can’t focus, think of what he should say—manages to mumble, “—bad feeling.”  The pull is getting less painful, less…stretched, strained, but no less urgent.  Dutch is coming closer, fast.  Mike jumps up, forcing his thoughts into line, forcing himself to think straight.  “I’m gonna go pack my stuff.”

He’s still half-expecting Julie to ask questions, but instead she just nods, thin-lipped.  “I’ll get the militia together.”

Mike has already packed his tent and his backpack by the time the Raymanthian militia are gathered, looking confused and more than a little bit nervous.  Ruby has her arms crossed and a very skeptical look on her face as Mike shoves his sleeping bag into his pack and swings it onto his shoulders.  “Am I hearing this right, Sir Smiling Dragon?” she says.  “You have…a bad feeling?”

“It’s more than—”  Mike starts, but he’s cut off almost immediately by the distant, familiar sound of flapping wings.  He looks up at the sky and then backs up hastily as Dutch comes swooping down out of the evening light and lands hard in the middle of the road, breathing like he’s winded.

“I—” he pants, and doubles over, panting.  “I.  Found.  I got—”

“You found them?” Mike grabs his shoulder, steadying him as best he can—Dutch leans into the touch and gasps, trying to catch his breath.  “Where?”

“I headed—up toward the castle—saw them on the way back,” Dutch pants.  “They doubled back around!  They went right past us, they’re headed straight for the capitol!”

A cold jolt like a splash of ice water rushes down Mike's spine.  He forces himself to take a breath--another one.  “…Okay,”  he says, and forces his voice steady.  “Okay!  The guards at the palace should be able to—”

“They have only half our number again, left guarding the palace,” Ruby says sharply.  “We need to go.  We need to go  _now_!”  

The camp snaps to life.  Suddenly people are yelling, pulling down tents, saddling horses.  Ruby turns back to Mike, eyes blazing.  “We need to tell the—”

“King!” says Mike, already reaching into his pack.  “I’m on it!”

 “We need to tell the  _Duke,_ ” Ruby finishes, “—he’s not going to pick up!”

“Lord Vanquisher!” Mike snaps at the mirror.

It’s the view of the ceiling again, the mirror resting on what’s probably the top of the king’s desk.  A faint voice filters out of the mirror as the call picks up; “— _Your name will be protection, and you will bind—_ ”

“Your majesty,” says Mike urgently.  “Your majesty!”

There’s a moment of silence, and then the sound of footsteps and Chuck’s face appears, hands reaching down to push stacks of paper off the mirror Mike is looking through. 

“Mike,” he starts, and the combination of stern frustration and exhausted annoyance in his voice makes Mike’s gut twist, but there’s no time to worry about that.  Mike swings his pack onto his shoulder, whistles and hears Mutt whinny in the distance.

“There’s an invasion headed your way, sire,” he says, and Chuck’s expression goes blank and then startled and then alarmed.  “The ones who escaped from us, they’re not trying to run.  They’re just as crazy as their king was, sire!  Uh—I mean, they—they are not—uh—”

“Spare me your stammering and tell me _facts_!” Lord Vanquisher says sharply, and Mike has to resist the urge to wince.  There are people who would know how to say this in formal, smooth and respectful and no hesitations, but—that’s not him, he doesn’t know how.  Chuck doesn’t seem to notice the wince.  He’s too busy digging around in his belongings, grabbing stuff from the desk the mirror rests on.  “How many?  From where do they come?”

“At least sixty,” Mike says, and hesitates for just another second before giving up on formality completely.  “We took out another ten or twenty soldiers when we rescued the hostages, but everybody who was left has doubled around and they’re headed for the capitol.  Coming down from north-northwest.”

“North…” Chuck waves a hand—the mirror floats up into the air, hovering by him as he slashes a hand over the paper, drawing lines, symbols.  “Route 10?”

“Yeah,” says Dutch, and takes the mirror, does the same spell Lord Vanquisher did to hang the mirror on some invisible hook in the air.  Mike takes the opportunity to swing up onto Mutt’s back, .  “Somebody’s trying to cloak them, but they know they’re gonna be hard to catch up with, they’ve only got one cloak and it’s pretty weak.  Uh, they lost most of their horses—there’s fifteen, maybe, still riding, and they’ve got maybe two, three mages.”

“Good,” says Lord Vanquisher distantly.  Ruby and her guards are staring from Mike to the mirror to the king’s face and back again.  “Anything else?”

“They’re a day and a half away,” Dutch says.  “Tomorrow morning, maybe tomorrow afternoon, you’re gonna have company.  If we ride as fast as we can we’ll reach you about the same time, but we’re gonna be behind either way.  The militia is going to have to hold them off until we get there.”

Chuck looks pale again, eyes wide and too bright and a muscle working in his jaw.  “Very well,” he says, and his court formal is as icy and steady as it’s ever been.  It feels…different, though.  Like it’s costing him more, like that panicky kid Mike saw is closer than ever to the surface.  “We will prepare our—”

A door opens.  The king glances around, and something flashes across his face, too fast for Mike to follow.  Surprise, fear, relief.  It’s hard to tell which one ends up on top—a second later he’s blank and icy again. 

“Duke,” he says.  “I need you to contact the militia.  Fortify our western defenses.”

Mike’s stomach tightens.  But—what’s he supposed to say, “no, don’t tell him”?  His spine is prickling, his back hurts to fly, he doesn’t want the Duke to be here, to see this, to know.  But the king trusts him, and…and they have to _go_ , they have to go right now.

“West?” the Duke sounds faintly amused, a little impatient.  “Why?”

“We’re being invaded,” says Chuck, and picks up his paper, holding it out.  The Duke takes it, a shadow in the back of the call.  “We have—twelve hours, maybe.  If we shore up as many defenses as—”

He stops. 

“…sir?” Mike says.  Lord Vanquisher is staring into nothing.  Mike waits for a second, but the king doesn’t keep going, just sits still and stares, brow furrowed slightly.  “…Sire, do you—?”

“The deeper they invade into our territory, the more of our traps and spells they’re surrounded by,” says Lord Vanquisher, quiet and slow, almost uncertain.  “…we could evacuate the side of the city they plan to invade.  Lure them in, and then close off their routes of escape behind them.  I am unwilling to let them escape again, back out into my kingdom to—hurt my people.”  There’s the faintest possible hitch on the words, a frightened kind of tremor—in the background, the Duke scoffs.  Mike sees his king’s eyes dart over, sees the way he falters—uncertainty creeping into his eyes, bowing his shoulders.

“It’s a good plan,” says Mike.

Chuck blinks, losing some of that unhappy edge in favor of surprise.

“—wh—what?” he says.  Mike meets his eyes very firmly.  Remembers himself, rethinks what he was saying.  How would Julie say it?

“…I agree with your plan,” he repeats.  “It may…complicate the battle, but your people’s safety will be better preserved.   Um…and we are more than capable of carrying it out, your majesty.”

Chuck is looking at him with a strange combination of wonder and open mistrust.  “I…” he says, and then shakes himself.  “I do not employ you for your flattery, Smiling Dragon.”

“I would not flatter you at the cost of my men,” says Mike firmly.  “I’m a soldier, your majesty.  I wouldn’t—would _not_ give my support to a plan I believed would lose me knights.  And I do.  Support it, I mean.  Your tactics are solid, sire.”

The Duke scoffs again.  This time, Mike sees Julie frown—first at the Duke, then at Chuck.  He still looks uncertain and unconvinced.  Julie sighs very softly.

“…It could…be improved on, with your permission,” she says, and then before Mike can open his mouth to object, “—as any plan could and every plan should, sire.  Still.  It does you credit.”

“Texas believes he can rock this plan verily hardcore,” says Texas.  “Question.  Do you want prisoners, for Texas is the best at prisoners.”

The Duke outright laughs that time.  “Puh-lease,” he says.  “Prisoners for _what?_ ”

“For not murderin’ people?” Texas says, and oh, that’s good, he’s matching tone with the Duke’s derisive common casual, that’s great.  “Texas is great at war and stuff, but I ain’t down to just kill people if they give up.”

“No king would choose Bardonia over Raymanthia if they were given choice,” Dutch says, very soft but very sure.  It sounds so much more right when the others do court formal, like they know what they’re talking about, and the king nods slowly as they talk, breathing slow and deep.  “Capture them, show them the mercy of the crown, and they might yet be worthy members of your kingdom.”

“Yeah, totally!” says Texas.  “Sooth, would that not be the coolest?!  I mean, come on!”

Chuck’s eyes dart toward the Duke again—he wets his lips, glances back at Mike. 

“…I would…rather not kill, if I could capture,” Mike says, in answer to the unspoken question.  “Good soldiers do bad work for bad men, my king.”

Lord Vanquisher holds his eyes for a long second, and then, very slowly, he nods. 

“Capture,” he says.  “If you can.”

The Duke makes a hoarse noise that might be a laugh or might be a snarl.  Lord Vanquisher glances back, uncertainty in his eyes—Mike grins at him, grateful and relieved.  “Thank you, sire,” he says, as genuine as he knows how, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the slight easing of the tension in Chuck’s shoulders.  “Are…you…?”

He doesn’t know what he wants to say—can see the resolve in Chuck’s eyes, and the Duke standing behind him, lips thin and face impassive behind his sunglasses.  Lord Vanquisher’s cheeks are still a nasty kind of gray-white color under his freckles.   _Are you okay?  Are you going to be okay_?  Mike can almost hear the Duke’s cane slamming against the desk, his voice rising angrily.

“…We’ll be there as soon as we can,” he says.  “I’m—my apologies, for…for calling you after sunset.”

“It…” Chuck hesitates for a second, then breathes out, a long, shaky sigh.  “Do not do it again.  My work requires concentration.  Complete isolation.”

Something about the way he says those words makes Mike’s heart kind of twist up, but he doesn’t have time to answer—can’t answer, not in front of everybody watching.  So instead he nods, bows his head as well as he can from Mutt’s back.  "I will repay you for my discourtesy in battle, sire."

"You will repay me for your discourtesy with a proper apology," the king corrects him, and Mike glances up and sees Chuck watching him.  Some of the cold sternness has faded from his eyes, now.  He looks tired and tense.  Worried.  "And I expect you to deliver it in person, and to be alive to do so.  Do you understand?"

Oh.  

Oh, Chuck is... _worried_ about him?

"Yes, sire," says Mike, and even though he's kind of panicking, even though he's about to chase headlong after a battle, he can't stop a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.  "Of course."

"Very good," says Lord Vanquisher, and looks past him, eyes flickering over the faces he can see through the call.  "Sir Ruby, we cannot fight this battle without you."

"We will ride like the wind," promises Ruby, shoulders squaring, back straightening with pride.  "We will see the towers in the distance by daybreak, Lord Vanquisher."

"There must be some resistance at the capitol, sire," Julie contributes from near the back, and swings up onto Nine Lives with a grunt of effort.  She's not wearing her makeup--her face has a harder edge to it, like this.  Her hair is loose around her shoulders.  "They'll suspect a trap if there isn't."

"Of course," says Lord Vanquisher, "Thank you.  We will be ready here when they arrive.  Make haste."

"Yessir," says Mike, and pulls the mirror out of the air.  For a second he just meets Chuck's eyes, and sees something soft and familiar and worried flash across Chuck's face, hidden from the others, hidden from the Duke.  A soft, brilliant kind of terror, hopeful and fond.  Then the king nods to him, just once, and ends the call.

Mike bows his head and takes one long, deep breath, filling his lungs so deep they ache.  Then he lets it out and turns back to the rest of the Raymanthian militia. 

"We're riding through the night," he says.  "Let's move!"

\--

They arrive at Raymanthia a few hours after dawn.  There's a dogged exhaustion in the air; Mike's running on adrenaline and a couple handfuls of caffeine pills, and he knows most of the others are the same way.  Even Texas is riding with his head down, lips moving slightly—talking to himself, making sound effects for whatever he’s imagining as he rides, who knows.  The Raymanthian militia are silent

There's a pretty clear trail to follow.  The Bardonian raiders have left a trail of wrecked farms and scorched shopfronts in their wake, not bothering to cover their tracks.  The faces around Mike only get grimmer with every block they ride; there are no corpses, but even with no casualties the damage is going to take a while to fix. 

They reach the castle at the same time as the Bardonians do. 

The massive gates are closed—from the ramparts overhead, Raymanthian men and women throw down rocks and fire arrows at the invaders, who are scrambling to find cover.  One of the Bardonian mages is shooting up fireballs and bolts of concussive force like thunderclaps; even as Mike watches, a man on the top of the wall dodges too slowly and is thrown backwards like a rag doll, vanishing behind the parapets.  A solid fraction of the Bardonian invaders also have crossbows, and they’re picking their shots carefully. 

There’s  something about that sight, the castle under siege, the enemies circling _his king’s_ castle like jackals ( _your territory, defend it, guard it, keep it safe)_ , that makes Mike see red.  He starts forward, not waiting for strategy, ignoring the voices behind him as people hiss his name.  The soldier closest to him is a woman, one of the crossbow archers—Mike slams into her back, bears her to the ground and tugs her arm into a joint lock.   There's a nasty  _pop_.  Mike winces as the woman screams.  But she's down, and she's not going to fire any more arrows. 

One down ( _protect your flight protect your territory protect your_ king) fifty-nine to go.

People are already turning toward  him as he pushes himself back up again, drawing his sword; somebody is swinging a crossbow his way, one of the mages is holding up a hand toward him.  His Burners are behind him, the other Raymanthian troops streaming forward around him.  Mike puts his head down and fights.

It’s a dirtier fight this time—broad daylight, and the Bardonians still flinch away from Dutch and Julie’s illusions, but they don’t run.  There’s a loose ring of soldiers with heavy weapons, melee fighters, covering a tighter ring of archers, and in the middle of that ring there are two mages.  Mike bloodies his knuckles on somebody’s face, barely avoids a nasty cut across one hip, takes another few slices to his arms and shoulders. 

One of the mages throws a fireball his way, and Mike can’t afford to think about appearances—he speeds up instead of dodging, puts his arms up and pushes through the roaring gust of heat.  It’s hot, _boiling,_ like water that’s barely bearable, but it doesn’t burn him.  The mage who threw it has half a second to scream, trying to scramble away, before Mike grabs him by the neck and slams him face-down into the ground.  The man yelps in pain, tries to get up and then crumples back down again, gasping, as Mike scythes his arms out from under him with one leg. 

Mike’s about to go for the other one when somewhere behind him, Ruby gives a sharp whistle.  Mike glances back—sees the other Raymanthians pulling back and makes a snap decision.  The archers are still staggering from the fireball and his unexpected attack; he throws himself backwards, a backwards roll into a back handspring into a run.  A crossbow bolt tears through his cloak as he backs up, barely missing his thigh.

“Surrender, Bardonia!” Ruby shouts, and Texas grabs Mike’s shoulder, throws him a fierce glance and grins.  “The crown will show you mercy!”

There’s a murmur from the Raymanthians on the wall, and from the Bardonians themselves—the melee troops ad the archers glance at each other, bloody-handed and dirty and pale.  And…behind them…

“Wait,”” Mike murmurs, and shifts to one side, trying to see through the press of bodies.  The mage is still in the middle of the group, but he’s on his knees now.  His hands are cupped to his chest like he’s holding something close, and Mike feels the back of his neck prickle and feels—he feels—

“Guys!” he snaps into his comm, “The guy in the middle, whatever he’s holding, we gotta get it away—!”

And then he’s in the air, he’s falling.  The ground bucked under him like a living thing, and he doesn’t have anything to grab onto, his wings aren’t there when he tries to beat them, he’s—

\--hitting the ground hard, bouncing and rolling and breathless.  He pushes himself up immediately, groping around, finding the hilt of his sword.  People are yelling.  Enemies.  _Enemies of the empire._ Coming toward him.  _Do your duty to the pale throne._

No.  The Smiling Dragon, not the King's Right Hand, he's in Raymanthia, he's not Kane's anymore, and--and he needs to be upright, right now.  The ground is still shuddering, pebbles bouncing around Mike's hands as he plants both palms on the cracked asphalt and pushes himself to his feet.  For a second he thinks he's concussed again, but--no, the ground is _actually_ swaying this time, and the roaring in his ears is coming from somewhere...above him...

“ _What_ is _that?_ ” Dutch whispers in his ear, half impressed, half horrified. 

“A golem,” says Julie, cold and focused.  “Take out the caster, go for the caster!Texas,  _no!”_

Footsteps pound the pavement behind Mike and a blur of black and red leather goes flying past him with an exhilarated, echoing whoop.  Texas sinks his fingers into a crack on the golem’s side and rears back the other arm, spinning his nunchucks.   The monstrous figure makes an awful grinding, groaning sound and swats at him, misshapen arms moving with deceptive speed; Texas is faster.  He swings himself out with a grunt of effort, hanging on by one hand, and launches himself out into thin air, catching the monster’s wrist, pulling himself up onto its arm.

“Alright, Texas!” Mike yells, half-laughing, and Texas lets out a raucous kiai somewhere high above and brings his weapon down on the joint of the golems’ right elbow, _one-two-three_.  Every impact is an explosion, a sheet of reddish-purple fire; the golem staggers, making more grinding roars as its hand turns back into crumbling asphalt.  Mike cheers and then grunts in pain as pebbles and gravel spray the road like hail.  He uncovers his face as soon as he can, watching Texas claw his way up the golem’s arm and start battering away at its shoulder instead.  “You’re awesome, dude!  Guys—Tex’ll keep that thing busy, leave it!  Julie, can you get off a shot on the mage?!”

“He’s warded, but—” Julie starts, and then cuts off with a sharp, pained yell. 

“Julie?  Jules!”

“I’m okay!” Julie pants, cutting back in.  “I’m fine, I’m okay—we need something to break through that barrier!”

A sudden, sharp gust of warm wind hits Mike, whipping his hair into his eyes, kicking up clouds of dust and gravel.  Mike staggers and backs sharply away from the golem, staring around for the source of the spell.  He’s not the only one.  Bardonians and Raymanthians alike just stopped in mid-battle, staring around, backing warily away from each other.  Mike can’t see anybody on the Bardonian side casting magic, apart from the guy summoning the golem—and he hasn’t looked up, still bowed around whatever he has in his hands, eyes glowing faintly.  So if it’s not him…

The back of Mike’s neck is prickling.  The wind is still gusting past him, rushes of air whipping the castle banners out overhead. 

Mikes glances up, and his heart abruptly skips a beat.  There’s a tall, rawboned figure standing on the wall of the castle, arms raised, cloak whipping in the wind from the incoming storm.  He sweeps an arm out and up and a gust of warmth sweeps past the men and women on the ground and then rushes up into the sky—the clouds give an angry murmur, churning, dark and heavy. 

Overhead, Dutch gives a startled yell and lurches in the air, wings snapping out wide as they’re suddenly filled with warm air.  “I’m comin’ down!”

“Dutch, wait--!” Julie starts, and then has to dive out of the way as a big guy with an enormous broadsword tries to bury his blade in her side.  Dutch spirals down, rapidly losing altitude, and then yells and spins out of the way at the last second as a crossbow bolt whistles past him.  Mike glances over at Julie and then staggers and screams, almost dropping his sword, as sharp, hot pain lances through his right shoulder.  Overhead, somebody else is yelling—Dutch, he’s hurt, Mike can almost see through his eyes as the tug in his chest suddenly wrenches tight.  An arrow in the muscle of one wing, he can’t fly like that, Mike has to help him!

Mike hesitates, agonized, as Julie backs away from the wild swipes of her attacker’s sword, stops as another gust of wind tumbles Dutch through the air, whips around as Texas yells, yanking at his leg where it’s caught between two chunks of shifting asphalt—

“ _Raymanthia!_ ” says a voice, high overhead, echoing further, louder than any human voice should.  “ _Drop your weapons!_ ”

There’s no conscious thought involved.  Mike drops his sword and throws himself away from it, feeling something buzz across his skin, his hair standing on end.  He can just see, for a split second, Lord Vanquisher’s hand raised toward the clouds.  A glitter of sparks crawling around the broadsword of the man attacking Julie, around every mace and club and axe—

Mike’s vision whites out.    There’s a rush of wind, a sudden flash of heat, a light so bright it seems to burn into his eyes—a _BOOM_ like the world shaking apart. 

It takes Mike a second to come back to himself—he might have passed out for a second, he’s not really sure—but when he does, everything is pretty quiet.  Except his ears are ringing and possibly maybe he’s blind now.  Somebody is groaning nearby.  Other people are laughing, breathless and shocked and sort of terrified.  The air smells like burning and thunderstorms.

….lightning.

_Lord Vanquisher._

Mike sits up really fast, gets onto his feet and grabs his sword off the ground, then promptly drops it again with a hiss—it’s burning-hot.  There are purple-green afterimages throbbing behind his eyes and his ears are still ringing, but he can make out a tumble of rocks where the golem used to be.  Texas is picking his way out of the rubble on all fours,  dragging one leg, scuffed and bloody and looking dazed.  Julie is still curled up on the ground with her arms over her face—the man who was attacking her is collapsed a little ways away, smoking and limp.  Dutch appears over the side of a rooftop as Mike gets his feet under him.  He looks about as shaky as Mike feels, but he’s upright and breathing. Chuck—

Mike can’t see Chuck any more, he’s not on the wall, _where is he_?  What if he’s not safe, what if somebody saw him doing magic and shot at him—

“Sir Chilton!”

People are running.  An arm steadies Mike, somebody grabs his shoulder and braces him.  Thurman, staring at him from behind his glasses, looking worried. 

“…’M fine,” Mike says, and it feels too loud but he can only barely hear himself.  Bardonian soldiers are on the ground all around him—the Raymanthians are picking themselves up, a little at a time, staring around.  “Where’s.  King.  Where’d he…?”

Thurman says something muffled.  Mike squints at him, and Thurman sighs and raises his voice.  “He did a really big spell!  He’s lying down!”

“He’s okay?”  It’s so important, it’s really important, Chuck’s gotta be okay. 

Thurman nods and pats Mike’s shoulder.  Mike lets out a jagged breath and grins, shaken by relief, trembling with it.  They _won._   Geez, that got messy at the end.  His Burners are safe, his king is okay.  They can pick up the pieces of whatever else is wrong, but those are the important things.  

“I gotta go see him!” he says, kind of loudly.  Thurman laughs, faint over the ringing in Mike’s ears, and pats Mike on the shoulder. 

“Get fixed up first!” he yells. 

Mike is fine!  He doesn’t need to get fixed up.  He shakes his head stubbornly, and Thurman says something Mike can’t hear and shakes his head.  Raises his voice again. 

“Get fixed up!  He doesn’t want to be seen yet anyway!”

Oh.  Mike wilts a little—Chuck needs him _more_ now, he shouldn’t send Mike away when he’s vulnerable, when he’s worn out and needs protecting.  Mike loves him.  Needs him to be safe. 

…But he also loves Texas, lying against the heap of crumbled golem and holding his leg, and Julie and Dutch, both making their way shakily toward him.  He loves them a lot, and they need him too.  Mike chews his lip for a second, then sighs and nods.  “Soon, though,” he says, because that’s important, that Thurman gets it.  “I gotta see him, as soon as I can.”

“Sure,” says Thurman, and kind of…guide-pushes him away from the castle wall, toward the other Burners. . “Get your ears healed.  You’ll see him soon!”

\--

It takes a while for the castle mages to get everybody cleaned up.  There are a lot of injuries, and even the Raymanthian soldiers who weren’t hurt are dazed, half-deaf and shaken by the lightning-strike.  The Bardonian soldiers are…well.  Most of them don’t need the mages’ attention.  The smell of burned flesh makes Mike’s stomach twist, and some part of him can’t stop thinking— _he was still up, so I kept on hitting him until he went down._   Keeps thinking, _I burned him, got him in the eye._ Thinking about gouges and knees in the groin and hidden knives in the gut. 

The Duke is probably at the king’s bedside, wherever he is right now, and Mike can barely sit still, electrified by the thought.  He’ll be up there, telling Chuck it was good that he had to kill people, that he should feel good about this—not because his militia are safe, but because his enemies won’t get back up again.  And that’s not Chuck, and it shouldn’t be.  The Duke wants to turn Chuck into a weapon, use his magic, collar his power, and it makes Mike’s stomach twist up into a vicious knot. 

He grabs the other Burners as soon as their ears are healed and Texas’s leg is splinted, dragging them up and through the castle gates, hurrying across the courtyard and into the throne room.

Mike’s expecting to hunt Chuck down to some remote room where the Duke can whisper to him in private.  But the first thing he sees when he comes stumbling across the threshold is a familiar head of golden hair and a simple, gleaming crown.  Lord Vanquisher slumps in his throne, looking very pale, being plied with trays of delicacies and drinks of various sorts.  He's waving most of them away, looking faintly ill and a little bit flustered by all the attention--Mike would guess he's not used to a lot of people fussing over him in public.  Well, it's great.  He deserves to have somebody other than the Duke care about how he feels.  

The sight of him draws up adrenaline and excitement from the roiling mess of emotions going on in Mike’s chest; he’s grinning as he comes forward, he can’t help himself.

"Your majesty," he says, and sweeps a bow.  "Masterfully done!"

It's a good phrase, and it makes Chuck's lips quirk at the corners, which feels like a victory right now.  "Yes, very good," he says, a little shakily, kind of quiet.  "The bravery of the Raymanthian militia proved as...crucial as ever."  He leans back, like he has to catch his breath after just a few words, and Mike wants--to curl around him, bury his face in Chuck's neck and probably never let him go  _ever_.  He looks so drained and cold and tired.  Mike settles for grinning instead, controlling himself.  

"Definitely!" he says, because that's not the  _point._   "Your strategy was invaluable, d—" he stutters over the slip, swallows the word “dude” with difficulty.  "—sire."

"Oh," says Lord Vanquisher, and his eyes flicker across Mike's face, narrowing slightly behind his bangs.  He hesitates for a second, then squares his shoulders.  “…Yes, Sir Chilton.   Our financial minister will see to your compensation.”  A nod—in the back of the room, somebody bows and excuses themselves, a flicker at the corner of Mike’s eye.  Chuck looks back at Mike, and his lips press thin for a second like he has something he wants to say.  Carefully, he settles back in his throne.  “…You have served the kingdom valiantly today,” he says, slow and deliberate, “It draws to midday, and you have not slept _._ I'm sure you wish to retire."  

Mike opens his mouth to protest that no, he's wide awake and he needs to talk up Chuck's strategy skills more—however he says that in formal, he'll figure it out—when he catches that narrow-eyed look again and stops.  "...As you say, my king," he says carefully—one of Julie's stock phrases, an easy dodge.

The Burners bow out of the court, and immediately start talking.  Texas is complaining that he’s too  _old_ for bedtime, Dutch is talking to himself, sketching things out in the air.  Julie tucks an arm through Mike’s absently to walk with him, frowning distantly like she's deep in thought about something.   Mike keeps his thoughts to himself, keeping an expectant eye out, and they’ve only gotten part of the way to the tower with their rooms in it when Chuck swings out of a nearby elevator, falling in on Mike’s other side as casually as if he’d been waiting for Mike to walk by. 

It's super weird how he seems to just _know_ where people are in his castle.  Mike doesn’t ask, though, just inclines his head carefully, faultlessly polite.  He has to break form a second later to grin at the look Chuck is giving him, eyes narrowed like he thinks Mike is pulling some kind of prank. 

“Your Majesty,” Mike says brightly.  Chuck goes _mmm_ and glances back at the other Burners, who promptly fall back, watching with interest and amusement.  Chuck grimaces a little bit, then looks back at Mike.   

"What was  _that_ about?" he says, without preamble.  He still sounds hoarse and looks kind of pale and trembly, but the look he gives Mike is very sharp.

"What?" Mike says innocently.  Behind him, Texas snorts.  Chuck glances back at him, cheeks pink, then speeds up, striding long, pulling Mike along with him.  

"You  _know_ what," he says, when they're a ways ahead of the others.  His voice is low, he's leaning in to hiss at Mike, and Mike can see the healing cut through his eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose.  It's already faded to a faint, pink line; it still makes Mike's shoulders tense, hands twitching.  Somebody tried to kill him, almost put his eye out, and Mike wasn’t there.

That’s not the point though, the point is getting Chuck to accept that he did something totally awesome.  "I've never seen somebody just  _call_ a storm like that!"  Mike says--Chuck's mouth crimps into a dubious line.  "How did you do that?!"

"It's just meterology," Chuck says, and geez why is he  _defensive_  about being smart?  Like Mike is insulting him by suggesting he's good at something.  Behind Mike, Dutch makes a faint  _ohhh_  noise.

"Warm air, cold air," he says—brings both hands together and folds his fingers.  "Thunderhead.  That's pretty dang good!"  he stops,  holds up both hands as Chuck turns and stares at him.  "...uh...sorry, your majesty.  Mike's got a point, though."

"To guide the path of the lightning's charge, with such precision as to avoid your allies," Julie says, neat and formal, "Your—"

"Oh, for god's sake," Chuck groans, and drags his hands down his face.  "Look, you don't have to be formal, and you don't have to talk me up.  Okay?  I'm  _tired_ of people telling me what they think I want to hear, just—!"  Julie is staring at him, frozen in the middle of a word—Chuck stops as well, coloring as he realizes his rudeness.  "—I mean, your service, uh—you—have my trust.  Sufficiently to—agh."  He slumps, drags at a handful of his hair.  The shadows under his eyes look more pronounced than ever, bruise-deep as he sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose.  "...I appreciate it," he says finally, quieter, a little ragged.  "But if Mike's going to talk to me like a peer, you guys should be able to, too."

"Yeah, okay, cool!" says Texas immediately.  "Texas thinks—"

"You really were a huge help," Julie says over top of him, very firmly.  Lowers her voice again as Texas subsides, looking annoyed.  "...I don't know if you noticed, but things weren't going all that well out there before you came."

"Texas liked the lightning spell," Texas contributes.  Buffs his knuckles on his tank-top.  "Not as cool as fire, but pretty cool."

"I gotta paint you up there on the wall," says Dutch with relish.  "Now that's a picture, man, you looked _so cool_."

Chuck turns that suspicious look on the group at large—nobody pays attention.  Texas is reliving the coolest moments of the fight, yelling over Dutch and Julie as they discuss the changes in their tactics, the new formations and magical possibilities of combat in Raymanthia.  Mike nudges Chuck in the ribs with an elbow, grinning.  

"...Told you so," he says, and Chuck sighs and shakes his head.  

"So you're  _all_ insane," he says.  "Great."

 "Are you gonna try to tell it makes more sense for all of us to be crazy than for you to be good at magic?” Mike says, and nudges him in the ribs again.  “Come on.  _Come on,_ Chuckles.   Hey, come on.”

“ _Mike,_ ” Lord Vanquisher mutters, and shoves at Mike’s arm.  His pale face is flushing self-conscious pink along the cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. 

Okay, yeah, maybe “Chuckles” was a little bit much.  “Sorry, sire,” says Mike, and edges a respectful step back.  “…you are—you seriously, really did great, though.”

“It’s true,” Julie says firmly, and Dutch makes noises of agreement, and Texas whoops.  Chuck glances back at them and the corners of his mouth kind of tremble, like he’s trying really hard not to smile.

“…I’m—” he stops, swallows like the words are hard to get out, then finishes, “I’m not _bad._ ”  The words make his mouth twist a little bit like the words taste bitter.  He hurries to add, "—but there are a ton of people working for me who are much, much—"

"Yeah, _maybe,_ but we're not talking about them right now, and they didn't totally save the day today!"  Mike throws an arm around the king's shoulders, just squeezing a little bit.  "Come on, buddy.  Don't sell yourself short."

"... _should have you court-marshaled,_ " Chuck mutters, but the flush on his cheeks is darkening.  "Okay!  Okay, fine, I'm smart.  I'm pretty damn smart, okay?  Happy now?"

"Super happy," says Mike contentedly, and squeezes him again.  "You're a genius."

"Oh, screw you," says Chuck, for no apparent reason, and shoves at him.  "Get off, you're such a dumbass."

"Compared to you, sure," says Mike, relentless, and grins to see Chuck sputter, lips twitching helplessly into half a reluctant smile.  "You're so good at magic, dude!  You should show off more.”

“What,” says Chuck.

“You should show me some magic!” Mike repeats, warming to the idea now, and glances back at the others, a little sheepishly.  “I mean—”

“Aww, what?  You’re gonna go make out  _now_?” Texas groans.  “We were gonna go chill though!  Texas got hurt, like a badass!”  He gestures at his bandaged leg, gives Mike a look that’s hilariously close to a pout.  “My leg got cracked and stuff!”

Chilling with the others does sound really nice, and Mike does kind of want to cuddle up with Texas, reassure himself his buddies are okay.  But he also wants to take care of Chuck, tell him how great he is.  He hesitates, uncertain—Julie sighs, swings around him and puts a hand on Texas’s arm.  “I bet all those bruises are really cool-looking,” she says, and tilts her head on one side, smiles sweetly.  “You should show me.”

“Oh!” Julie never has a lot of time for Texas’s stories about how cool he is—Texas looks taken aback and then cautiously hopeful, almost shy.  “Uh, okay!  Yeah, totally!  Did you see Texas fight a big rock monster?”

“We totally did,” says Dutch, and rests a hand on Texas’s back, steering him gently back toward the room.  He glances over and throws a wink at Mike, then looks back at Texas and grins.  “You blew its arm off.  Pretty cool.”

"We're not gonna go make out," Mike says, a little too quiet and way too late, and Dutch glances back at him and winks again, much more ostentatiously.  Chuck clears his throat, and when Mike glances at him, he looks transparently flustered under a very thin veneer of dignity.  

"I assure you," he starts, but the Burners are already gone, not listening.  Chuck huffs, crosses his arms under his cape, throws an almost furtive glance over at Mike from under his bangs.  

"...Sorry about them," Mike offers, because it feels kinda like he should.  "We haven't, uh.  We haven't had a king in a while.  We've kinda forgotten how to, um..."

"Yes," says Chuck, still a little formal, still pink in the face.  "Yes.  Well."

"So!" says Mike, too loud and too quick.  "Uh!  So, that lightning spell.  Was that pre...pre-form?  Or free.  Form.  That's what it's called, right, I'm not makin' that up."

"What?" says Chuck, apparently startled by the change of subject, and then "Uh, no!  No, that's right, you're not making it up."

"Sweet."  Mike can't quite figure out what to do with his arms--crosses them, uncrosses them again.  "So.  So which one was it?"

"Actually, it was..." Lord Vanquisher's eyes seem weirdly stuck on Mike's arms, like he got distracted when Mike crossed them.  There's a second of weird silence, and then he blinks and looks up.  "It was a combination of both?  I've been working on...if you take every part of the spell, and you make it three-dimensional, use the patterns like a layer of sieves instead of a mold and use free-form to make the pattern selective..." he must catch Mike's look of utter confusion--he groans and rubs his face with both hands, raking his hair back out of his eyes.  "Look, would it be easier if I showed you?"

"Uh, probably," says Mike, because hey, he's always liked to learn with his whole body, not just his brain.  Holding things and looking at them is so much better than just getting told about them.  "How are you gonna  _show_ me magic, though?"

"Don't worry about that," says Chuck, and there's a hint of that brilliant fire in his eyes now, enthusiasm taking some of the tired edge off his expression.  "I'll show you.  Here, come on!"

He walks faster than Mike, and Mike's tired--Lord Vanquisher keeps getting ahead and then having to stop and double back to wait for Mike, until finally he seems to just get frustrated and grabs Mike by the wrist, pulling him eagerly along.  It takes a stupidly huge effort for Mike to keep himself from shifting his grip a little, sliding his fingers through the king's and holding on.  But he doesn't.  Just holds on tight and lets himself be pulled wherever it is they're going.  

"Where they're going" turns out to be a room in the central tower, a few floors down from Lord Vanquisher's royal suite.  Somebody has taken a huge chunk of what used to be hotel rooms, knocked out the walls and lined them with shelf after shelf of ancient, crumbling books.  There are even more books stacked on the floor, covering basically every flat surface in the library.  Chuck weaves his way through the stacks deftly, glancing around like he's afraid he's going to get caught here. 

"...This is my library," he confides, voice low, and grins a little shyly when Mike whistles.  "Don't knock anything over, I have a system.  Back here."  He weaves his way through the stacks of books, not letting go of Mike's arm, and Mike stumbles after him, trying to ignore the feeling that they're sneaking away to go hide in a closet and make out like a couple of dumb kids.  The fact that he really kind of hopes that they  _are_ going to make out in a closet isn't helping at all. 

Chuck stops for a second at a tall shelf full of rolled-up papers, grabs a scroll almost without looking and then keeps going.  When he stops again, it's in front of a tiny door that legitimately looks like some kind of storage cupboard.  Chuck pulls it open, and ducks into the tiny room beyond; there's barely any room to move.  All that's in there is a broad workbench, a huge, soft-looking chair that's almost a couch, and more stacks of books and papers.  Mike hesitates in the doorway, and Chuck glances back at him and makes an impatient noise, waving him inside.  "Come on," he says, "Look!  Look, you want me to talk about what I'm proud of, dude?  Lemme show you.  Here, sit down."

He settles down in the chair, and Mike edges over and then settles down cautiously next to him.  There's just enough room in the chair for two.  Chuck's thigh presses up against his, Mike can feel his chest shift as he breathes.  Mike sits very, very still, and tries not to lean into it.  

Although actually, Chuck still looks really pale and kind of exhausted, especially now that he’s sitting down.  He starts picking things up, clearing off the desk, and Mike can see a glint of sweat on the bridge of his nose—he feels very, very warm against Mike’s side. 

“…Sire,” Mike says cautiously.

“Mm?”  Chuck picks up a paperweight and tosses it off into the piles of books and papers around the tiny cabinet.  “What?”

“Do you feel okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Lord Vanquisher absently. 

“You look kind of…” Mike chews his lip for a second, trying to find the words—something that makes it clear what he means, but doesn’t make it sound like he thinks his king is weak.  “You worked really hard today.  You don’t…are you sure you feel okay?  Here—”

Chuck turns back to the cleared desk, scroll in hand, and then stops, eyes going wide, as Mike reaches out and presses a hand to his forehead.  Mike knows he runs hot, and even to him Chuck’s forehead feels too warm.

“You’re gonna get a spellfever if you don’t get something in your stomach.”  Mike shifts, starting to get up.  “We can do this some other time, dude.  You need some rest.”

Chuck huffs and waves that off.  “I’m _fine_ ,” he says.  “Sit down.”

It doesn’t sound like he means it as an order, but he didn’t say it like a request either.  Mike sits back down.  Somewhere far away and as close as his skin, Texas breathes out a soft huff of fire—a brief shadow-impression of heat on Mike’s face, of power stirring in his chest.  Lighting a lamp, maybe.  Mike sees the flames for a split second, and then he shakes his head and they’re gone.  Chuck doesn’t seem to have noticed he was distracted--he’s pulling out the scroll he picked up in the library. 

"I've been working on..." he unrolls the paper with a flourish, flattening it out across the desk in a broad sweep.  " _This_." 

It's a single black dot, barely bigger than a thumbprint.  "...uh," starts Mike, uncertain, but Chuck is already reaching down, cupping both hands over the dot and then drawing them apart.  The dot expands, unfolding.  Where there used to be a solid, dark mass, now there are layers, weaving in and out of each other, too tiny to make out the exact shape of the symbols.  Mike opens his mouth to exclaim, and then shuts it again as Chuck repeats the gesture.  Again.  Again.  

By the time he's done, the spell takes up the entire sheet of paper.  It's an intricate web of runes and number, slashed pen lines connecting them decisively, and it looks unbelievably complex.  Chuck holds out a hand over the network and pulls on something invisible; the entire structure rotates slowly, new symbols fading into the foreground or transforming as they turn.

"Three-dimensional spell-modeling," says Chuck, beaming at Mike's dumbfounded expression.  "It's pretty neat, huh?"

“Dude.”  Mike leans in, tracing a finger over an inked line.  The symbols seem to shudder strangely under his touch, like they're trying to break free of the page.  “…wow.  You understand this?”

“I, uh…” The king hesitates, nerves creeping back into his smile, then takes a deep breath in and lets it back out again.  “…I wrote it.  This is one of mine.”

“ _What_?” 

Chuck flinches.  Mike pulls back, hands raised as far as he can in the crowded space between them.  “I mean,” he tries again, quieter.  “No, I mean it’s just…really impressive, okay?  I’m not a mage, but  _dude._ I can tell a really complicated spell when I see one, this is…wow.  What does it do?”

“It’s--like, a synthesis of the  _Magricorious Arbortorum_  and—”

“Simple words, dude.”  Mike says mildly.  “I know basically literally nothing about magic theory, remember?”

“Right.  Right, right.”  Lord Vanquisher hums to himself, thinking for a second, then finishes, “Uh…it’s a shield spell.  A _really_ big shield spell.  This is just a model, the real thing is _way_ bigger.  It’s a new idea—you don’t have to write the spell forms on anything, you form them out of pure magic and then use free-form to put them in the structure you want and channel magic through them.  I got the idea from, uh.  I mean, I’ve been looking into…animadividation magic, so…”

His eyes flicker to Mike, like that word should mean something to him.  Mike grins, confused but impressed, and Lord Vanquisher’s eyes flicker away again. 

“…so,” he says.  “I’ve put some tricks in there to make it stronger.  I’ve been working on it since I was…agh, like eight.  I haven’t tried it out yet, but uh.  Mathemagically-speaking, it checks out.  Almost.  I’m almost there.”

“Why a shield spell?”  Mike leans over in the huge chair to touch the spell form again, keenly aware it presses their shoulders together, their hips and legs almost down to the ankle.  “Geez, if you can make something this big, why not make some kind of…weapon or something?”

“…’S safer,” Chuck says, quiet.  Mike glances up at his face, but the king isn’t looking at him.  Just staring down at the rolled-up paper.  “It’s not all lightning spells and…and, I mean—making the first move.  Sometimes it’s better to just keep your defenses up.  Protect what’s important.”

His hands knot in his lap as he says the words, and Mike thinks about armor and masks and cold court formal, and scoots a little bit closer.  Shifts his hand just an inch or two to the side, so a few fingers touch the warm, lean muscle of Chuck’s thigh through his slacks.  Chuck’s breath hitches, stops for a second. 

“Sometimes you gotta…let stuff in,” Mike says, and hears his own voice like it’s coming from far away, eyes catching on the flick of Chuck’s tongue as he wets his lips.  Chuck’s breathing is speeding up a little, barely visible but very clear with Mike’s side pressed up against his.  “…Open up to…things you’re not sure about.   Y’know?”

“I—but—” The king’s ears are pink, his eyes are wide behind his bangs as they slip out of their ponytail.   “Something could go wrong, it could…wh-what if something bad happens?”

“What if something _good_ happens?”  Mike presses, and grins.  “Come on, my king.  It could be so good.  It could be _great._ ”

Chuck licks his lips again, shifts, and Mike can feel his heartbeat where their sides are pressed together.  He leans in, just a little—

“I,” Chuck  starts, cracked and sudden, and leans back.  Breathes deep and finishes, lower and smoother, “I can’t.  My—Raymanthia is, is too vulnerable.  We can’t afford to risk getting…hurt.”

He pushes himself up.  Mike lurches forward a little, instinctively searching after that warmth, that point of contact—he pulls himself back together again in a second, but he has to hold onto the arm of the chair to do it, chewing on his tongue, breathing through the wash of cold ache and hot frustration in his chest.  He wants— _so much,_ so badly, and it could be so good, and—and Chuck’s scared, he shouldn’t be, he should trust Mike.  Should lo—should _like_ Mike as much as Mike likes him.  (He’s _Mike’s_ and precious and important, and it’s not right if he doesn’t trust Mike, it’s wrong and it hurts.)

"I started on this shield spell when I was eight," says Chuck, and busies himself collapsing the spell diagram down again and rolling the paper back up.  "I'm working on some stuff—I've been working on it, I mean, for a while now.  Just, trying to change the structure around.  It’s gonna be great.”

“Uh-huh,” says Mike.  He’s—trying to be interested, he seriously is, but his brain is stuck on the cautious longing in Chuck’s eyes, the flush of his cheeks and how bitable his lower lip had looked.  “Y-yeah.  Looked really cool.”

Chuck squares the rolled-up paper away, not looking at him.  “Yeah,” he says.  “It is.  Um.  Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mike says, and he doesn’t know what he’s forgiving, but whatever it is, he means it.  “My fault, dude.”

Chuck is still not looking at him, kind of small and miserable, and that’s not gonna fly.  Mike sighs and reaches out to pat his back, brief and solid, not lingering like he wants to. 

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” he says, honestly.  “I’m not tryin’ to push, I just…uh.”

“… _like me,_ ” Chuck mumbles, and reaches up to mess with his hair.  His face looks pink in the dim light.  “You…like me.  I-I know.  It’s just—I’m just— _the king_.  Y’know.  I can’t do stuff, sometimes.  Even stuff I…”

He stops, and Mike waits, holding his breath, but he doesn’t finish the words.  He shakes his head instead, tucks the scroll under his arm. 

God, he looks so tired.

“You should come back up to the room, though,” Mike says, before he can stop himself.  “Not—not for anything, just…we all had a rough day.  You need to rest, right?”

“I…I was going to work,” says Chuck, but he doesn’t sound enthused about the idea.  “I mean, I need to report to the Duke…”

“The Duke can wait for a bit,” Mike insists.  “Come on.  Dutch makes us hot chocolate after battles sometimes, when we’ve got chocolate.  It’s really, really good.”

Chuck’s stomach makes a quiet little rumbling noise.  Mike grins at him, and Chuck crosses his arms and straightens his back, apparently determined to pretend it never happened. 

“You like hot chocolate, right?”

“…Yes,” says Chuck, like he’s being forced to admit some deep, dark secret.  Mike grins at him, inviting, and Chuck sighs.   “Yeah, I do.  A lot.  But, uh…it’s your thing, you guys.  I’d be intruding on—”

“No, dude!”  Mike says immediately, startled and bemused.  “No, we’d totally love to have you there!  You’re part of the fl—the team!”

“The what?”

“The—the team,” Mike repeats, and tries to ignore the self-conscious swoop in his stomach.  _The flight._   Dangit.  “You saved our butts out there, you fight with us, you’re…a Burner, too.  If you wanna be.”

“Oh!” says Chuck, and blinks, kind of stunned-looking.  “Oh, well, I mean.  That’s very…good of you.  To offer.”

He doesn’t give any more answer than that.  But he doesn’t pull away either, when Mike wraps a hand gently around his bony wrist and pulls him toward the elevators.

The other Burners have pulled the furniture together when Mike and Lord Vanquisher get there; they’ve set up and lit the old camp stove Dutch carries around in his pack.  There are tiny, slightly sooty mirrors fixed around the inside of the stove; a flame hovers in the center of them, burning in thin air, heating a battered kettle full of hot cocoa.  It looks _amazing,_ and it smells even better than it looks. 

They look up as he comes in, Texas whoops at the sight of him and springs up, holding a mug carefully in both big, scarred hands.  “Hot chocolate, Tiny!" he says, and then blinks and grins at the sight of Chuck hovering uncertainly in the doorway.  "Oh!   Hey, your Vanquisherness."

"Sire," says Julie, and for just a second Mike's kinda worried she's going to do that thing where she stares people down.  But instead she just smiles and swings her legs off the couch, opening up two places next to her.  "There's plenty of room."

"And plenty of chocolate," Dutch says, immensely satisfied, and breaks off a piece of the magically-grown chocolate to drop it reverently into a steaming mug of cocoa.  "This place is great."

"Your majesty," says Mike, grinning, and bows Chuck respectfully toward the couch.  Chuck glances from him to the couch to Julie and then edges forward and perches on the end cushion, leaving plenty of space between himself and Julie.  Julie doesn't look offended--if anything, the look in her dark eyes softens a little bit.  

"...Thank you for coming up," she says, simply.  Chuck blinks and then stares at her; Julie looks back at him evenly, quietly genuine.  "It's nice to have you here.  We were worried."

"I, uh," says Chuck, and reaches out, apparently on automatic, to take a mug of hot cocoa as Dutch offers it to him.  "Y-yes.  I mean yeah.  I mean, thank you.  There was no need for you to worry." He coughs, a little awkwardly, drops the formality again.  "...I'm fine."

"Heck yeah you are!" Texas says, and holds up his mug enthusiastically, slopping cocoa up the sides.  "Long live the king and Texas!"

"Long live the king," Julie and Dutch echo, and Mike flashes a grin at Chuck as his mouth twitches into a helpless kind of smile.  "And Texas!"

They all drink, and Mike lets out a long, satisfied sigh as the chocolate burns all the way down, hot and sweet and perfect.  Chuck cups a hand over the mug first, head bowed self-consciously, and there’s a faint flicker of light on the back of his wrist—whatever the spell is, it seems to do what he wanted, because he breathes out and takes a cautious sip.  Almost immediately, his eyes go wide and his expression of tired uncertainty brightens considerably.

“Oh, _wow,_ ” he says, and takes another drink, eyes almost closed.  Makes a noise that should really be criminal, this sort of shivery moaning noise that makes Mike’s mouth go very abruptly dry.  “Oh wow that’s _really_ good.”

“Yeah, well.”  Dutch’s voice sounds kind of weirdly hoarse, for some reason—when Mike glances at him, confused and a little concerned, he looks fine.  He’s watching Chuck.  “I’m good at—with my hands.  Makin’ stuff, I mean.”

“Yeah, no kidding!” Lord Vanquisher says fervently, and drinks most of his mug in another gulp.  Dutch smiles, kind of shy, and turns back to their little camp stove to break some more chocolate into the pot.  “Can…I mean, would I presume too much to, um…”

Dutch is already handing him up another cup.  Chuck slumps and takes it.  “…Thank you.”

“No problem,” says Dutch brightly, and pours the last of the chocolate out into his own mug, taking the little pot off the stove and pulling himself up and back into a big, soft-looking armchair.  “You saved our butts today, man, the least I can do is an extra cup of hot chocolate.”

“You’ll need the carbs, after a spell like that,” Julie points out.  “You’ll give yourself spellfever.”

“I can handle it,” Chuck says, with dignity, and takes another sip of his hot cocoa.  When he drops the mug again, there’s a dab of foam stuck to the very tip of his nose.  Mike kind of wants to reach out and touch his face, and kind of wants to say something, and kind of wants to sit there and grin helplessly at his king for a while, because _wow_ that’s cute.  “I’ve got…some worthy reinforcements at my side.  I’d like to see Bardonia try anything again, with a Dragon in the court.”

A cold jolt of panic shoots down Mike’s spine.  Something is ringing in his ears, he can barely hear it when Chuck turns to him and grins.  “…you did great out there, Sir Smiling Dragon,” he says, and Mike—oh.  Oh, god, oh, right.  His title.  _Dragon of the Court_ , it’s an old, courtly thing to say, but from Chuck Mike really should’ve expected that.  It’s fine, he’s fine, nobody knows.  They’re still here, he’s fine. 

“Thanks,” he says, too late.  “Yeah.  Nobody messes with dragons, huh?  Pretty…pretty nasty.”

“Dragons ain’t so bad,” says Texas. 

Mike’s stomach, which is still uncrumpling from the terrified knot it crumpled into a second ago, does a kind of dizzy swooping thing instead.  “Huh?”

“I mean, not all of ‘em,” Texas says, and waves a hand.  “Some of ‘em suck but, like, some of _everybody_ suck.  And not just ‘cause they’re not Texas, kachaw.”  He rummages around in his pack, yawning cavernously as he does, and pulls out a flask, totting a generous quantity of some nameless liquor into his hot chocolate.  Dutch sighs, nose wrinkling, but doesn’t comment.  “To the Burners!”

“The Burners,” the others echo, and Mike hears a quiet, cautious echo just a second late from next to him on the couch, “… _the Burners._ ”  He can’t hold back a smile as he tips back his mug for another drink.

“He’s right, though,” Chuck says, when they’ve all drunk.  He keeps shifting around on the couch, like he can’t decide how to sit—straight-backed and regal, then cautiously slumping, then pulling his legs up onto the couch and then putting them back down again.  “About…uh.  Dragons.”

Mike swallows his hot chocolate really wrong and goes into a coughing fit.  Julie pats his back, not watching him—she’s watching Chuck, eyes narrowed slightly.

“Right how?” she says mildly.

“That they’re all different,” Chuck says.  “That some of them…suck, but most of them aren’t aggressive, unless somebody messes with them first, and, and they’ve got all kinds of culture and sociological structures we don’t know about, still, and we’ve been living with them for thousands of years!”

“Boring,” Texas laughs as Mike straightens up, eyes watering, thumping his chest with a fist.  “What, you a dragon-nerd or somethin’?”

“Uh…”

“… _Preeminent—expert,_ ” Mike manages, hoarse.  Lord Vanquisher blinks and turns slowly to look at him, eyebrows rising.  “Thurman.  Said so.  Hff.  Said you were…the guy, for dragons.  To ask stuff.”

“Th…Captain Ericsson?”  Chuck leans in a little.  “Seriously?!  What did he say?  Why did he say that?  Did you wanna know something about dragons?  I mean, I dunno if I would call myself a—ha, but, I mean, if you do want to know something—”

“He said you were the ‘preeminent expert’ on…uh.”  Mike frowns, trying to remember.  “Dragon…lore…and biology?”

“Pfffshaw, Texas coulda answered stuff about _that,_ ” Texas scoffs, and Dutch settles back in his chair and sips his cocoa, every inch of his expression spelling out _oh this should be good._   “Dragons make eggs—”

“Uh, no,” starts Chuck, but Texas is steamrollering on.

“They got like _four_ dicks each, and like two—”

“Uh, _no!_ ” Chuck says, higher-pitched.  “I don’t—no?”

“Definitely not,” says Mike firmly.

“Uh-huh, well, you ever _seen_ a dragon?” Texas says stubbornly.

“ _Yes,_ ” says Mike, in perfect, exasperated unison with Chuck.  Texas looks from one of them to the other, then huffs and subsides.

“…and they live in big dragon families and they like hot people who’re good at doin’ stuff, and they like shiny stuff and they burn a bunch of trees and junk around where they live when they wanna get it on,” he finishes, all in one long breath, and crosses his arms.  “See?  Texas knows stuff.”

“Well,” Chuck starts, in the tone of somebody who’s clearly about to debunk something—and then stops, blinking.  “Uh…well, yeah, actually, most of that is…that’s…yes.   Those parts are true.  _Those_ parts are.  The other—dragons don’t have—I mean, but, they’ve just got a normal number of, of, um…”   His face is going bright red.   He picks up his mug again and takes a very large gulp.

“ _Mating equipment?_ ” Julie suggests wickedly.  Chuck makes an ugly sputtering noise into his cocoa.  Mike’s face is _burning._

“Jules, come _on_ …”

“Hmm?” says Julie innocently, and bats her eyelashes at him as she sips her cocoa. 

“Oh!” says Texas.  “And, they can look like people.  And they can turn into rocks.”

“Right!”  Chuck perks up abruptly, apparently forgetting his embarrassment in favor of wide-eyed interest.  “Right, the two-form thing!" He's unfolding again, like he always seems to when he finds something to talk about that he enjoys.  "They're bimorphic, and we don't know why!"

"I thought it was because the first dragon was in love with a human," says Mike.

Everybody turns to look at him like he's a crazy person.  Mike looks back at them, feeling suddenly very conspicuous.  "Uh," he says, and sits back, folding his arms over his chest.  "Sorry."

"No, no," says Chuck, holding up a hand.  His eyes are fixed on Mike, narrow.  "Is that--where did you hear that?"

"It's...a story my mom told me," says Mike, and shrugs uncomfortably.  "...'S not important."

"Stories are important," says Chuck firmly.  "What did she say?"

"It's been a long time, I don't remember most of--"

"Whatever you can remember is fine."

"Uh," says Mike again.  Everybody is looking at him and jeez, he can’t say “no” now.  That would look suspicious as heck.  He clears his throat, tries to keep his voice kind of level and uninterested, like he’s just telling some story he heard once.  "So.  She told me when the first dragon met a human, they fell in love.  The dragon pulled out their heart and gave it to the human, and they were trapped in a human shape.  Until..."

He stops, swallows.  Chuck leans in, eyes very bright, focused on Mike's face like he's memorizing it.

"...Until...?"

"Until the human gave the stone back," Mike says, quiet and fast, and tries not to look at the stones on Texas's arm, Julie's neck, Dutch's finger.  "Then the dragon...went mad, with grief, I dunno, and they...killed the human.  By accident."

Mike had begged and begged to hear the end of the story, and then he'd cried when his mom told him.  He barely remembered that until now, it's such a distant memory.  Now it hurts, stings all over again.  

"Why?" Chuck says.  "Why'd the dragon kill them?"

"It's just a story," Mike says painfully.  Grinds the heel of one boot against the ground instead of looking at anybody.  

"Stories are  _important,_ " Chuck repeats.  "Please, Mike?"

How is he supposed to say no to that?  Mike takes a deep breath, lets it out slow.  "...because they were heartbroken," he says quietly.  "Because they...couldn't ever get back everything they gave, and--and they were bound to somebody who didn't love them and they would be  _forever_ \--I dunno.  It was a long time ago."

There's a long silence.  Texas has a hand on Mike's back, fisted up in his shirt like he's trying to keep Mike from falling off something.  Julie is pressed up against his side, small and cool with one hand on Mike's arm.  Dutch just watches him, eyes wide and dark and worried, almost sad.

"Who would give back a gift like that?" says Lord Vanquisher, very softly. 

Mike's heart constricts in a painful, throbbing lurch.  "It's just a story," he says again, and digs a thumbnail into the lines of his palm, picking at a blister.  "It was--dragon stones don't exist.  And if they did it would be dumb to give them to somebody.  Somebody who--might not want them, if they knew.  What they were."

"But--" Chuck starts. 

"That's a dumb ending for a story!" Texas bursts out.  "Nuh-uh, that's super lame.  How about the dragon just gives them to people who aren't dumbasses and those people are totally cool with it because it's what he wanted to do with 'em!  And nobody gives nothin' back unless he wants 'em, and everything's great."

"Kids stories have to have depressing endings," Julie says, with a coaxing hint of a joke under the words, and her hand squeezes Mike's wrist a little.  "How else are you going to scare the kids into submission?"

"No wonder you didn't wanna tell it," says Dutch.  "I'm--actually with Texas on this one, that's...yeah, no."

They're all around him, pressing in, reaching for him, and Mike can't breathe.  He wants to lean into their hands, he wants to get up and run, he wants...

"Did your mom tell you...any other stories?" Chuck says, really tentatively, like he thinks he'll hurt Mike if he raises his voice.  "Any, uh, happier ones?"

"Just a lot of stuff about dragons," says Mike.  Chuck's eyes brighten, curiosity transparent in his grin.  "I don't remember all of them.  She uh.  Really liked…stories about dragons?"

"That's okay!" Chuck says eagerly.  "No, that's so great though--if you can remember any of them, I--I really wanna hear."

"Oh, uh."  Mike blinks, startled a little bit out of the daze of painful thoughts.  "I'm.  I'm not really a storyteller."

"That's fine," says Chuck, and scoots in a little closer.  Dutch glances at him and then at Mike, and grins.  

"Come on, man,” he says, and gives Mike that smile Mike can never say no to, dark eyes crinkling up, warm and cajoling.  “Don’t leave us hangin’.”

Mike really doesn’t remember much of his mom’s stories, and the ones he does remember are almost painfully childish, now, fragmented and simplified.  But he remembers the story about how dragons learned to fly.  He remembers the one about the hundred great beasts and how they fought to be the rulers of the world, how the first dragon won their place as the strongest. 

He hesitates after that, but Chuck is staring at him like Mike is the greatest thing he’s ever seen, eyes practically sparkling, and Mike only resists for a second before he gives in and tells some of the others.  The one about the disobedient hatchling that went down to the river by himself and got captured by humans.  The one about the curious hatchling who flew over a manticore’s nest, got hurt and broke his _aman_ ’s heart.   The one about the hatchling who didn’t listen when his _aman_ taught him things, and was so easy to distract, honestly, someday someone is going to steal your hoard right out from under you while you’re off chasing birds…

He has to stop after that.  It hurts too much, because those aren’t stories, they’re…something private, little warnings and reminders he should have listened to.  He can almost smell sun-warmed grass, see the enormous trees, the clearing he grew up in with its golden light dappling the ground, the abandoned town nearby that he used to play in.  Shifting into a two-legged shape with skinned knees and scrubby hair to go scrambling up trees, turning back into a soft-scaled hatchling to come gliding back down again, and he hates it, and it hurts, and it feels so good to remember, like he could sink into the memory and never come out. 

“Mike,” says Dutch’s voice, soft and insistent, like he’s been saying it for a while. “Hey, man, come on back.  Didn’t mean to send you somewhere, come on.  Come back.”

“Is he okay?” says another voice, as Mike blinks away the cobwebs in his head, takes a deep breath through the pain in his chest.  Familiar voice.  His king. 

“He does this sometimes,” says Texas, and somebody squeezes Mike’s knee, gives it a little shake.  “C’mon, Tiny, don’t space out on us.  Yeah, he just remembers stuff, I guess, or something.  It’s not a bad thing unless he looks all freaked out and he’s grabbin’ his chest.”

“O-oh,” says Chuck, and Mike is back, like he never left, back in the here and now.  It’s disorienting, but not so disorienting he can’t muster up a glare for Texas.  “Sir—I mean.  Mike?”

“I don’t space out,” says Mike.  “I was thinking about something, come on dude.”

“Yeah, for like two whole minutes,” Texas says, apparently unconcerned by Mike’s glare.  “It’s cool, Mike, Texas doesn’t care if you’re weird.”

Chuck sputters, startled, and then laughs, a ludicrous snorting giggle.  Mike is immediately distracted from being annoyed at Texas, because holy crap, yes, great.  Texas preens a little bit, obviously pleased with himself for winning a laugh.

“Do you know any more stories?” Julie says, and edges down the couch, picking up Mike’s arm and dropping it over her own shoulders.  When she snuggles closer, something in Mike twists up tight.  He’d do anything for her.  Having her close feels so nice, the feeling might as well be pain. “You could make one up.”

“Aw, no, Jules,” Mike laughs, and his hand is already in her hair, combing it out, and he needs to take it away but he can’t.  he can’t.  “I’m not a storyteller, I told you.  I’m running out.”

“Just make something up,” Texas says, and rolls over, sighing out a long stream of fire into the little stove.  It takes the flames, refracting them over and over, throwing fresh, flickering shadows over the room.  “G’wan.  ‘M listening.”

So Mike does.  He tells a stupid story, halting over his own words, about a guy who lives in another country across the ocean, where they have dogs the size of houses and people ride on their backs.  Dumb stories full of knights who go on quests to save their parents, save them and live with them for years, until they’re old and grey.  Stories about boys who want to be knights and knights who want to be human. 

By the time he finishes his fifth meandering little made-up story, nobody seems to really be listening any more.  Texas is already snoring faintly by the fire, worn out from the battle, the long ride and the healing spells.  Julie is curled up against Mike’s other side, a warm, compact weight.  Dutch has his feet up and his eyes closed, but he cracks an eye open as Mike finishes the story, smiles and closes it again. 

“Should I…” Mike starts, suddenly not sure—Chuck shifts next to him, like Mike startled him.  “I can stop.”

“Nah,” Chuck mumbles, and blinks blearily, shakes his head.  “Nuh—I’m awake, ‘m listening.”

“Okay.  Well, uh…okay.”   There’s something really great about this, really special, and he doesn’t want to stop but he’s also running pretty dry of stories.  Mike's heart is pounding in his chest, a new, old, familiar pain.  “So.  There was this…really young dragon, and he’d been…wounded.  Wounded really bad, so he couldn’t ever turn back into a dragon.  He ran away from his—the guy who hurt him, and he…went out in the world, alone.”

“Mm,” says Chuck faintly.  He’s swaying a little, head nodding further and further, eyes half-closed and almost hidden by his hair.  Mike glances up, but the others are all still, breathing slow and easy.

 “…He walked for a long time,” Mike says, dry-mouthed, and shifts very slowly, sliding an arm around Chuck’s shoulders.  He doesn’t pull, but he doesn’t need to—Chuck sways at the touch, mumbles sleepily and leans into Mike’s side, head settling on his shoulder.  Mike has to stop, breath catching.  His eyes sting for a second, his ribcage feels like it’s expanding, full of light and hot air. 

“He…” he swallows, squeezes his eyes shut.  The stinging doesn’t stop.  His voice is barely a whisper now, just for them.  “He was alone.  He was alone for so long.  And…and all he wanted, all he _really_ wanted…”

\--

Mike wakes up and it’s dark outside.  The stove is burned out, but by the faint glow left in its inscribed runes and the warmth of the air, it was burning until a little while ago.  Mike’s cheek is resting on soft hair, there’s a warm body under each of his arms. 

For a minute he isn’t sure what woke him up, apart from the fact he kind of really needs to pee.  But then the body under his left arm shifts.  A quiet sigh.

It’s warm and dark, and they’re here with him, the people he loves.  Mike sighs too, and nuzzles his face into that soft hair.

The body under his arm shivers and tenses up, and things start trickling back into Mike’s mind, one memory at a time.  He can see Dutch in his chair, Texas laid out on the floor—feel Julie against his right side, deceptively fragile-feeling.  So…

“… _Hey, Chuckles,_ ” he mumbles, and presses his face into Chuck’s hair.  Chuck feels warm, but not like he did before, feverish to the touch.  Mike wants him so deeply right now, it’s hard not to reach out and pull Chuck into his lap, nuzzle at his neck and cradle him there like something precious.

Chuck draws in a very long, shuddering breath.  Shifts again, and braces himself on the couch, pulling at Mike’s arm on his shoulder.  Mike makes a complaining noise, grip tightening automatically—Chuck tenses, suddenly not breathing. 

“Don’t go,” Mike says, and squeezes again, pleading.  “Don’t.”

“I have to,” says Chuck, “I shouldn’t be here.”  And Mike is going to argue more, except Chuck tugs on his grip again, and when he says “—Mike please, let go—” it’s not a command.  He sounds almost scared.  Scared of _Mike_. 

Mike lets go. 

Chuck scrambles off the couch and backs away, and Mike grips the cushion next to him hard, nails sharp and digging in.  He’s abruptly horrified with himself as he starts to wake up, to realize what he was doing—clinging, _claiming_ , what was he thinking—but even that horror can’t overrule the aching want in his chest, the longing. 

“Don’t,” he says again, small and pathetic.  He doesn’t reach out and catch Chuck’s wrist, doesn’t pull Chuck back down to him, but he wants to.  God, he wants to.  “Chuck.  You don’t have to go.”

Lord Vanquisher is very, very still for just a second.  He doesn’t turn back when he speaks, but his voice is strangely hoarse, quiet and high and strangled. 

“My thanks for the drink,” he says.  “Goodnight.”

The door closes behind him with a very quiet click.  Mike slumps back, feels Julie stir sleepily next to him and then settle back down with a soft murmur—puts a hand on her head instead, pressing against her, breathing through whatever is happening to him.  It’s worse than it’s ever been.  It’s the _worst,_ it hurts like…it hurts—

Mike drops his head back against the back of the couch, closes his eyes and breathes.  It’s still warm and close in the room, but his empty left side feels cold, an absence like a sinkhole, painful and impossible to ignore. 

“Stupid _,_ ” he says to the quiet room, to his throbbing chest, to the cold loneliness, to his burning, stinging eyes.  “ _Stupid._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Every king who has ever tamed a dragon has committed at least two war-crimes against an intelligent, rational creature--the spells to collar a dragon and to punish them for disobedience. Perhaps even more morally reprehensible is the magic imbued by some rulers into their collaring spells; magic that compels the captive dragon to desire orders, to trust their owners implicitly even when their orders lead the dragon to injury or death._  
>  _Even magic of this nature has been proven incapable of forcing a dragon to split their soul and their power for their owner's use--a theoretical process known as animadividation._ "  
> \-- Excerpt from "A Proposal On Draconic Taming, Bonding, And Animadividation, And Their Validity As Sanctioned Bellicose Arts", found crumpled on the floor under the desk of Lord Vanquisher's private study.


	7. Unpaid Debts, Long-Lost Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike comes face to face with a few deep, dark fears over a very short period of time--some he knew he had, and some he didn't. The Duke makes his opinions known as loudly as possible, and keeps everything else under wraps.  
> Texas, as usual, is smart, brave, cool, knowledgeable, handsome, badass, and just generally a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"The people of this kingdom have suffered too long under the oppression of their so-called king. Our children will no longer be stolen from our homes, brutally conscripted into senseless wars. We were sworn to a king against our will, for purposes we did not agree to; we choose now to forswear ourselves, for an unwilling word given to an unworthy king is no word at all. Though we may be ever marked as oath-breakers, we choose to declare ourselves the independent nation of Raymanthia._  
>  \- Raymanthian Declaration of Sovereignty

The next morning, there’s almost no sign there was ever a battle outside the gates of the palace.  There’s a crumbled heap of asphalt where the golem used to be; Texas climbs up onto it, still limping a little, and insists that Dutch captures his picture there, flexing and looking fearsome.  Everybody is congratulating the militia and the Burners everywhere they go, and people around town are starting to recognize Mike when he goes out exploring.

It's a good thing everything else is going really good, because Mike feels…bad. 

It’s not _just_ because Chuck isn’t talking to—well, yes, that’s _most_ of it, but.  He’s not that pathetic, he’s not _pining_ after him or anything.  He’s just worried.  He started thinking, as soon as Chuck was gone, about the way Chuck said “I need to report to the Duke”, and about how scared he looked when he realized he’d fallen asleep in the Burners’ room.  And now Chuck is brushing him off with court formal every time Mike sees him, giving him brief, fake smiles and then hurrying away. 

“You gotta quit _moping_ , Tiny!” Texas says, after about the fourth time Mike manages to find Chuck and is immediately shaken off again. 

“I’m not moping,” Mike says.

“You’re moping,” Texas says.  “What’s got you so mopey, tough guy?  You wanna tell Daddy Texas about it?”

Mike has to laugh a little.  “It’s—fine,” he says. 

“It ain’t,” says Texas solidly.  “But if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s cool or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Mike says.  “…Yeah.  Thanks, Texas.”

“Uh-huh,” says Texas.  “Hey.  You wanna fight?”

Mike does.  He really, really does.  Texas isn’t a dragon, and Mike’s still superhumanly strong for somebody of his size, but Texas definitely puts the work in.  His punches…well.  Pack a punch.  Even when he’s got one bad leg and Mike is still tired from the mission. 

They’re tied two against two when somebody clears their throat loudly from the side of the ring.  Mike glances over, distracted, and Texas sweeps out a leg and bowls him over backwards, pinning him on his belly with a knee in the small of his back.  Mike huffs, winded, and then slaps a hand at the loose dust under him as Texas presses down with his full weight.  “Uff—I give, I give!  You win!”

“Dang straight!” Texas says, and ruffles up Mike’s hair roughly, squishing his face into the ring.  Mike sputters and then slaps at him as they get upright, sweaty and covered in dirt.  “Uh.  Yeah.  You, whaddya want?”

“His majesty sends his regards, and invites you to court tonight for a celebration of Raymanthian victory,” says the Duke’s woman-at-arms, and folds her arms behind her back.  She’s got a weird accent Mike can’t place, and there’s something about the way she’s watching him from behind those dark glasses that makes him uneasy. 

“Is the Duke gonna be there?”  Texas says, nose wrinkling up.  Mike glances over at him and holds out a hand, just a twitch of one arm. 

“We’ll be there,” he says. 

\--

The party is more crowded than any court party Mike’s ever been to—probably because there are definitely people here who aren’t noble.  In Deluxe, court events were reserved for the rich and powerful, or the highly-favored; there are people here from around the city, from the farms on the outskirts.  Carefully-washed plain shirts and nicely-painted prosthetics.  Ruby’s there again, standing by the throne’s dais in her flawlessly-polished armor, occasionally splitting away to prowl around the edge of the room and watch people talk and eat. 

Mike can’t sit still.  He’s dressed up nicely, but he still feels weirdly out of place, can’t stop feeling like somebody is watching him.  Like there’s something he’s not noticing.  He hasn’t felt this on-edge since that time a couple months ago when the rogue mage the Burners were hunting hit him with some kind of emotional scrambler.  It hadn’t worked for her then—the emotion it landed on was joy, which had been kind of freaky for Mike but probably even more freaky for the mage—but the aftershocks had lasted for days afterward.

He feels like that now.  Twitchy and volatile, heart beating too fast and thoughts racing.  Something is watching him.  Somebody is watching him. 

A glint of scale catches his eye.  Mike whips around, staring—but it’s just…oh.  It’s the king, wearing his ceremonial armor, discussing something quietly with an all-too-familiar skinny figure in red.  Mike stares, and can’t stop staring, and he’s _still_ staring when the king nods a few times and gives a sudden, guilty glance across the room, directly at Mike. 

When he sees Mike looking back, his eyes go round and his spine snaps straight.  The Duke looks over too, and his expression is hard to read from this distance but there’s a quelling, percussive force to the way he leans down and hisses something in the king’s ear, punctuating the words with a final sharp _thud_ of his cane against the floor. 

Chuck looks away from Mike immediately; he nods and his lips move inaudibly.  Whatever he says makes the Duke laugh and slap him on the shoulder.  He holds out a hand expectantly; his woman-at-arms produces a tray of drinks.  The Duke grabs two, pushes one in Chuck’s hand and says something, still grinning.  Raises his glass in a toast.

And then, at the exact same moment, Lord Vanquisher and the Duke both glance over, directly at Mike.  An abrupt, prickling shiver goes up Mike’s spine.  For a second, he doesn’t know why—then he recognizes the feeling, and the bottom drops out of his stomach.  It’s that taste, smell, feeling, that faint hum through every nerve like a live wire.  Dragon magic.

The king’s face is blank, but his eyes look a little too wide, his shoulders drawn in almost like he’s nervous, uncertain.  Scared.  There’s nothing uncertain about the Duke’s grin, and nothing hard to read about the way he steps in, puts an arm around Chuck’s shoulder and clinks their glasses.  The king shudders all over when he throws back his drink, and Mike— _hates_ this.  Chuck doesn’t wanna drink, and if he was going to he should do it around people who are gonna be cool about it!

Mike starts toward them—stops, goosebumps rising on his skin, as he feels another flare of familiar magic.  Instinctively he turns his head, searching for the source, but it’s not something he’s smelling, a sound he can pinpoint.  He can’t find it, and it’s  _fading._

Mike starts forward, eyes half-closed, focusing on the feeling--almost bumps into somebody and mumbles an apology he barely hears himself say.  It's stronger...this way--toward the doors?  No, weaker again.  Stronger to the left, by the wall of the hall, he can feel it as he gets nearer, can almost smell it--

"Sir...Smiling Dragon?”

Mike opens his eyes and stops dead just in time to avoid slamming into Chuck.  Mike stares--Lord Vanquisher stares back, looking alarmed.  Mike's stomach twists into a nasty little knot.  "Sire," he says, embarrassment and unhappiness overwhelming relentless curiosity for a second.  

"Mm." The king clears his throat awkwardly.  "Are you--?"

“Uh—yes,” says Mike distractedly, and sniffs the air.  He can still feel it, but it’s  _fading._   It’s fading, vague and omnidirectional, somewhere not-there.  Every part of him wants to step forward and press closer, searching for the source of it, sniffing the air—he holds himself back with an effort.  It's moving.  If it was with Chuck (if Chuck was doing this, if there are dragon stones hidden somewhere on him) they're headed somewhere else, fast.  “Pardon me.”

“Of…course,” says Chuck, and there’s definitely confusion under the flawless manners. “Might I ask what…?”

“I don’t know,” says Mike frankly, and bows hastily, already backing away.  “I—sorry, your majesty!”

If Chuck answers, Mike doesn’t hear it.  He’s already half-running across the room, chasing the shiver of sensation.  It’s so faint, but he can’t be  _wrong,_ he can  _feel_ it.  It’s—to the right, no, overhead?  No, can’t be.  Behind—

“Sir Chilton?”

Mike whips around, a jolt of— _unprotected wings fangs fire—_ and Ruby jerks back, staring at him.  For a second they just stare at each other, wide-eyed, surprised by each other’s surprise.  Then, slowly, Ruby relaxes.

“Sir Chilton,” she says, “His majesty has sent me to inquire after your health.”

Mike stares at her.  Ruby raises her eyebrows pointedly then, when Mike still fails to look enlightened,  “…You’re racing around court like a cat with its tail on fire.  What’s going on?”

“I.”  Mike stops, staring at her, skin prickling.  “…where did you get that collar?”

Ruby’s hand flies up to her neck.  “What?”

“The collar,” Mike says.  He knows he sounds fevered, a madman.  He can’t seem to stop himself.  “Who put it on you?”

“it’s—none of your business who gave it to me,” says Ruby.  There’s color rising in her cheeks.  “I—well, if—goodbye, sir Dragon!  Smiling Chilton—goodbye!”

"Hey!"

She's gone.  Mike growls to himself, breathing too hard.  His skin is prickling, he wants punch something, draw his sword, breathe fire--

"Hwell well well  _well_."

 _That_ voice he knows.  Mike snaps around, teeth bared, and growls.  The Duke doesn't even flinch, just watches him.  He looks amused, and Mike  _hates_ him.

"Are you well, Sir Chilton?" says the Duke, mockingly polite.  Lowers his voice.  "... _people are staring.  What's got your tail in a knot?_ "

They are, they're staring, and Mike's teeth are sharp against his lips and his face feels cool and wrong, scales on his cheeks, they'll know, they'll be able to tell--

"I think it would be best if you  _retired_ for the night," says the Duke, and there's a sharp curl  to his smile, a vicious slice of white teeth.  Mike's eyes flicker past him, and he can see Lord Vanquisher watching, the shock and worry and unhappiness on his face.  The Duke glances back too, just a flick of his head, and his smile widens.  "... _you're embarrassing his_ majesty."

For a long, long second, Mike almost says  _no_.  Almost snarls  _where are you keeping them,_ or  _show me what you really look like_ or just growls at him like an animal, the ferocious rumble that wants to start in his chest.  But the king is looking away, lips tight and shoulders stiff--displeased,  _angry,_ disappointed in Mike--and there are soft murmurs around the room now, people staring at him.  The frenzied, overwhelming feeling is fading, leaving behind a fog of confused uncertainty.  Mike had been so  _sure..._

"Sir Chilton is feeling unwell!" The Duke announces, in that lazy, self-satisfied drawl, and leans in a little closer to Mike, lowering his voice.  "...Fly along home, Smiling Dragon."

Lord Vanquisher’s eyes are on him, and there’s a tight edge of annoyance in his expression.  His arms are folded tight across his chest, his head held really high, and Mike…

Mike bows, and goes.

He's been alone in the room for all of five minute when the other Burners show up, one after the other, wearing their party clothes and looking upset.  

"What was that about, Mike?" Julie says, and there's no accusation in her tone but Mike feels his back straightening anyway.  He messed up, and--and she's her father's daughter, and he can hear a familiar, exasperated edge to her voice.  It hurts.  Everything hurts right now, raw.  

"Sorry," he says.  He can't stands still, twitching and jittering all over.  His head hurts.  "Dunno.  Thought--I dunno.  Something was wrong down there, didn't you feel it?" 

The other Burners are staring at him like he's crazy.  Mike groans and rakes his hands through his hair, pulling on two handfuls so hard it burns.  "I  _felt_ it!" he insists.  "I'm not--stop looking at me like that!"

"Mike.  _Mike!_ "  Texas is frowning at him.  "Chill out for like, a second.  A baby second.  Half a teeny-tiny little--"

"I don't need to  _chill!_ " Mike snaps.  "I need to figure out what that  _jerk_  is doing to Chuck!"

"Whoa, whoa whoa."  Dutch is reaching out, hands held palm up, calming. "Mike, man, you're not makin' any sense.  I'm not gettin' what you're talking about, you gotta help me out."

"He--the Duke!" Mike says, frustrated almost beyond words.  "He's doing--something!  The gems, all that stuff he's wearing, the way he acts like, like Chuck is  _his,_ it's gotta be him!"

"Gotta be him  _what?!_ " Texas says, exasperated.  "I mean, Texas don't like him either, but--"

"...You think he's a dragon," Julie says.

Mike forgets how to breathe for a second.  Julie is watching him unerringly, eyes slightly narrowed and lips curved into a thoughtful frown.

"That's what you're thinking, right?" she says.  "He's got you on edge because he feels like he's...hoarding the king?  Claiming this place as territory and trying to force you out of our new home."

The thought makes Mike's spine prickle.  "He--he could be," he says, words bursting out of him in a stupid rush.  "The way he  _acts_ \--stealing, and, and hoarding and lying and making Chuck  _kill_ people for him, and--he  _says_ stuff--"

"What kind of stuff?" Texas growls.  "What's he been sayin' at you, exactly?  Texas'll teach him a thing or two if he's been messin' with you, Tiny, that's for dang sure.  Heck, Texas has got two legs--I'll teach him a thing or  _four_!  Ha! Ha!  HWAYAH!"  He throws two punches and then a pair of vicious snap-kicks.  "Not cool!"

"If he's been hurting you, I'll mess him up real good too," Dutch says, "--but Mike, all that stuff is--some people are just like that.  You heard Lord--uh, Chuck--dragons don't have to be..." he grimaces.  "Stealing...hoarding, lying, greedy animals. Some of 'em are good, and some of--"

"No!" says Mike stubbornly.  "He's  _wrong,_ okay?!  he's wrong about--me, and he's wrong about himself and he's wrong about the Duke, that guy's not his dad!  Chuck doesn't  _need_ him!"

"Mike," Dutch says, like Mike is saying something that hurts him.  Mike can't stop to listen, doesn't  _want_ to stop.  "Dude, I think you're too close to this one."

"I'm--I--too  _close?!_ "  

“Got it,” says Julie.

Mike opens his mouth to say something and then stops, stammering over the words, as he realizes he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.  “Got—what?!”

“There’s a hex on you,” says Julie simply, and her eyes flash golden-green.  “A destabilizer.”

“I’d know if I was hexed,” Mike says, but Julie just reaches out, both hands arched like claws, and makes a snatching motion an inch from his chest.  There’s a tense whine in the air, like a cable pulling taut, and then Julie yanks and something snaps free.  The thin air between her hands goes foggy and dark, a plume of wispy smoke; Julie shakes it off, lip curling as it clings to her fingers. 

“There,” she says.  “Feel better?”

He does, just a little bit.  Not a lot.  “See,” Mike says, and sways a little.  All the twitchy energy is draining out of him, and it feels bad, like, _really_ bad.  “This is—him, it’s gotta be.”

“It probably is!” Julie says, “—but setting you up to embarrass yourself at a party isn’t exactly a huge evil scheme, Mike.  Here, sit down…”

“He wants Chuck to hate me,” Mike says, and sits.  “He wants—if he’s a dragon…”

"...Then we wouldn't hate him," Dutch says, slow and careful, almost tentative.  "And we wouldn't want to hurt him.  Not for that.  I don't care if he's a dragon or not.  It doesn't matter."

Mike shakes his head, disbelieving, aimless.  The whatever-it-was that had its hooks in him is fading now, and he feels gray and battered and washed-out inside, like a river after a terrible flood.

"Yeah," says Texas.  "We hate him 'cause he's a jerk and he acts like people are stuff he owns and he just wants to keep on takin'.  Texas ain't cool with that."

Everything  _tears_ in Mike's chest, a wrenching ache.  It hurts so much it takes him a second to realize why it hurts so bad--and then he feels it.  Feels himself wanting them, all of them, his-- _flight,_ his too-many-loves.  _Like people are stuff you own._

"...Mike?"

"I'm going to bed," says Mike, and he hears his voice like it's coming from the other end of a long, long tunnel. 

“Mike,” says Dutch.

“Sorry,” says Mike, and backs up, pulling away from their hands on him.

“ _Mike_.”

“You should really listen, _Mike_ ,” says a horrible, familiar voice behind him, and Mike’s skin runs hot and cold. 

The Duke cocks a brow as Mike whips back toward him, spins his cane and then leans forward, balancing one elbow on the ostentatious fake gem.  Mike wants to kick it out from under him. 

"I have a new mission for you," says the Duke.  "From his majesty.  Some bandits have crossed the southern border and he needs them cleaned up.  A-now."

"...I don't believe you," Mike says.  Behind him, Julie hisses very softly through her teeth.  Mike ignores her, doesn't break eye-contact with the Duke.

"Well, I'd say you can ask him, but he's gone to his rooms for the night and of  _course_ he can't be disturbed." says the Duke, and quirks a brow at Mike.  "Are you questioning his orders?"

"No," Mike grits out, "But--"

"Hwell then, you'd better get going," the Duke sniffs.  "Not a minute to lose—there are a lot of settlements down south.  His majesty likes to avoid casualties at all costs, I'm sure you remember."

"Is anybody going with us or what?" Texas says.

"To deal with a couple of low-life bandits?" The Duke laughs.  "I think you can handle it."

\--

The first thing Mike is aware of is a throbbing pain in his head.  Then a sore, overstretched ache in his shoulders, in his back, his sides.  His back is pressed against something hard, his arms are pulled back at an awkward angle.  When he tries to pull them back into his lap, take the strain off his shoulders, something tugs on his wrists.  They're sore--it hurts.  Mike groans.

"Mike?"

"Jules."  Mike shifts again, tries to open his eyes and can only get his left one to work.  The right side of his face feels tacky, his eyelashes stick together.  When he licks his lips, he tastes old metal and salt--blood.  "Wh... happened?"

"We bombed," Texas grunts somewhere behind Mike, and there's a sound of metal rattling.  Chains.  "They got us good."

"What?" Mike shakes his head--it hurts, but at least it wakes him up a little.  Things are starting to fall back into place in his head, moving sluggishly but picking up speed.  "The--we were...fighting."

"Bandits," Dutch says, from Mike's left.  "They knew we were comin'.  Every move we were gonna make."

God, Mike  _remembers._   And worse, even worse than the sinking moment of realization ( _we're_ losing _, they can't they can't don't hurt them--_ ) he remembers...three glowing stones.  Two men and a woman, a stone each, and they'd... _changed,_ when they held them.  One with wings, tangling with Dutch in the air, bearing him down so the others could swarm over him and lash his wings together.  One fast, too fast, faster even than Mike was--a knife slicing across his forehead, barely missing his eyes as he pulled out of the way at the last second.  The third one with thick, emerald-green scales on his face and body, pushing straight through Texas's flames.  Mike had seen Julie go down, heard Texas yelling, seen Dutch pinned and struggling and then something had hit him on the back of the head.

"...We're still alive," he says.  His chest feels cold and tight and terrible.  "Why."

"Dunno yet."  Dutch says, and there's a faint tremor in his voice.  "But I bet it's not great."

"Texas can handle it," Texas says, hard and sharp.  "Texas can handle whatever they do!  Screw 'em!"

“I got an illusion over the stones,” Julie murmurs, very softly.  “We can’t use them, though.  There’s no way they won’t take them if they see what they can do.” 

Mike growls softly at that thought, tugging at his cuffed hands again—stops as that pulls on Texas and Julie.  “They can’t,” he says.

“We won’t let ‘em,” says Texas. 

“Won’t let us _what?_ ”

It’s the woman who almost put Mike’s eyes out—wiry and lean, with deep lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes.  She’s got a crown of tight braids, dark against her pale skin, and there’s a beautiful silver pendant around her neck.  A stone the color of a fire, a sunset, brilliant red-orange. 

“Mike Chilton,” she says, and crouches down on an eye-level with him, looks him over.  “You’re smaller than I pictured you.”  Her eyes flicker up and down, taking him in.  “…bigger than last time I saw you, though.”

“I’ve never seen you before,” Mike says, and it takes a huge effort to keep his voice steady, to keep a snarl out of it.  “…But when I get outta here you’re gonna be real sorry you met me.”

“Well, you were young last time I was around,” says the woman, and the stone around her neck flashes, she darts forward with speed Mike’s eyes can barely follow and digs her fingers into his throat.  Turns his face up and angles it into the light, like she’s looking for something.  “I hear Kane told you we were dead.  He’d rather have kept one dirty little orphaned monster than our whole _battalion_.”

“I…don’t…” Mike wants to say something, anything, but he can’t think of words.  Something is coming together in his head, slow and painful and one piece at a time.  _Kane told you…_

_…the ones who did this are dead…_

A hand on the back of his neck, dragging him through white marble corridors, soldiers in pure white armor with blood splattered on their gauntlets.  A woman’s voice, hard and familiar, _Your imperial majesty, we found this one hiding under its corpse_ …

“You,” Mike says, throat dry.  It comes out a breathless rasp, barely audible.  “You—were.  You _killed_ …”

“Blame Kane,” says the woman.  “He gave the order.” Her lip curls as Mike stares at her, frozen numb inside.  “…He didn’t even _want_ you.  The price was on her head—”

“Wait, who a what?” Texas says, and Mike should— _do_ something, but he can’t move.  Can barely remember how to breathe.  “What’d you do?  Hey!  Mike, what’s she talkin’ about?!”

“It was a job,” the woman says.  “Just like this is.  I hear you’re mercs, now.”  She shrugs.  “You get it.”

“…Killed her,” says Mike.  His heartbeat is thundering in his ears.  Distant, foggy memories; huddling up as small as he could, crying as silently as he could, hoping nobody would ever find him.  Gritty dirt under his knees.  Kane’s hand huge on his shoulder, warm.  _The ones who took your mother away are gone.  They’ll never get near you again._

“I told you—” says the woman, and Mike lunges for her.  He barely hears the sound he makes—a furious _roar_ , half-feral with grief and pain—it’s distant, a wounded animal’s noise, separate from him.  The cuffs drag at his wrists and he wrenches at them, ignoring the pain in his arms.  He wants to be what he should be, wants to be powerful, a destroyer, _unstoppable,_ wants to make them all pay and then burn Kane’s palace to the _ground_ \--

“--can’t break them like— _ah!_   Mike!  L-listen—”

Julie. 

Julie, Dutch, Texas, Mike is hurting them.  Pain in his wrists, Texas breathing harshly, Dutch saying his name over and over again, trying to bring him back.  The cuffs aren’t breaking.  He’s hurting them.  He’s _hurting_ them.

“ _…’M gonna kill you_ ,” Mike growls, and falls back, arms throbbing angrily, chest heaving.  Dutch and Julie immediately lean over, as close to him as they can get—Dutch’s hand finds his, Julie gets the fingers of one hand wrapped around his arm.  Both of them are glaring at the woman like they’re almost as angry as Mike is.  Behind him, Texas is yelling _we’re gonna kick your ass, you hear me!  Nobody messes with Mike—_

“I don’t think so,” says the woman, and stands up, turning her back on the Burners with a casual carelessness that makes Mike snarl again.  “We’ve got experience with your kind,  _Sir_ Chilton.  You’re the reason we got thrown out of our city in the first place, you’re going to be our ticket back in.  The rest of you are all pretty hefty bounties too.   _Wanted Alive…_ ” she glances back, and there’s a very nasty look in her eyes.  “…most of you.”

She turns back to the half-visible campsite on the other side of the crumbling wall, raises a hand to her mouth and gives a piercing whistle.  The distant voices of her banished battalion lull for a second, and then rise again as the two men carrying dragon stones climb over the broken wall.  The man with the scales is big, heavy muscles and a solid tread like somebody who’s used to heavy armor and heavier weapons.  The other one still has somebody’s stolen wings arcing over his head; dark, richly-colored scales, deep sunset-purple with flecks of little gleaming lights like stars. 

“You figure out some entertainment for the night, Corporal?” says the man with the wings, and the woman bows, spine ramrod straight, left fist angled perfectly against her right shoulder.  Mike shudders, helpless fury briefly overcome by a wave of something like regret.  An awful, poisonous little stab of memory; standing in a line with hundreds of other boys his age, learning _Salute!  Attention, parade rest, at ease!  Bow, kneel, rise!  Salute…_

“If you’re looking for entertainment, why don’t you untie me and I’ll show you some _pretty lights_?” Julie says, and Mike snaps out of it so abruptly it’s like a splash of cold water.  “That should be entertaining enough for all two of your brain cells put together.”

Mike hasn’t heard her sound that scathing—ever, maybe, and he’s still so angry it feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin but he’s also chained up, can’t defend her, and they can’t touch her they can’t hurt her they _can’t!_ He can’t let them.  “Jules,” he starts, but the ex-knights are already turning to look at Julie, and Julie’s not backing down.

“I think you wanna watch your mouth when you talk to us,” says the man with scales, and looms, taller than Mike, almost twice as broad.  “You’re outta Deluxe.  Woulda figured you’d have learned to show a knight some _respect._ ”

“Oh, you’re _knights_!” says Julie.  There’s a bright, hard edge to her voice, half hysterical and half…just, _cold,_ a familiar flinty spark to her dark eyes.  Sometimes Mike forgets who her father is, but sometimes the way she talks, the look on her face, the way she draws herself up—it makes his heart skip a beat.  “My mistake, I thought you were murdering, lying, th— _hhk—_ ”

The man’s hand wraps most of the way around her throat.  Mike jerks at his chains again, helpless to stop himself, helpless to stop _them_.  He can feel the flicker of his power, close enough to touch but impossibly out of reach as the man with scales lifts Julie halfway off the ground, pulling the chains tight.  “Don't talk  _back_ to me, princess,” the ex-knight growls.  “I dunno why Kane wants you, but whatever it is I don’t think he’d care if you came back all in one piece.”

“Leave her _alone_!” Dutch snaps.  The woman with the golden stone flickers forward and does something that jerks the chains against Mike’s wrist.  A dull _thud,_ a stifled grunt of pain.  Texas is yelling, there’s a snarl rolling through Mike’s fangs now, long and low and constant—

“Corporal!  Sergeant!”

The man lets go of Julie’s throat.  She slumps back, gasping, and Mike can’t stop himself from groping out for Dutch and Julie’s hands any more than he can stop himself from breathing.  Texas is still yelling behind him, _hey get away from them, what the hell are you doin’—_ and Mike is—he’s—he wants to…

“I trust your judgment, sergeant,” says the man with wings, and holds up a key; the big guy with the scales salutes and takes it, heading around out of Mike’s field of vision.  “Corporal, go set up a ring.”

“Captain,” says the woman, and flickers off.  Mike is opening his mouth to object when there’s a sudden jolt of movement behind him and Texas lets out a sharp grunt of pain.  The chains around Mike’s wrists pull abruptly tighter, slamming his back up against the rock they’re tied to, twisting his shoulders out and back at a painful angle.  A ferocious throb of agony flares up in his left wrist, and he yells before he can stop himself, gasping.  When he tries to move his hand, something clicks in his wrist and another shock of pain stabs sickeningly up his arm.

“You’ll make good entertainment,” says the man with scaly skin, and he comes back around the pillar with Texas held in front of him, one hand on his chained wrists and one on the back of his neck.  “If you try to run, these three are gonna pay for it, so put up a good fight for us, huh?”

“Texas don’t  _run_ ,” Texas growls. 

"Yeah, we'll see," says the man with scales, and grins at Mike with teeth too pointed.  His stone is deep green, throwing light up over his face from below.  "Get out there, tough guy, let's see what you're made of."

“What—hey, wait!” Mike starts, but they’re not listening.  Outside the corporal is yelling something, people are cheering, magic is flaring up in the air like ozone.  Texas glances back at him, rolls his shoulders and grins, and Mike’s heart kind of crumples inside-out, an awful, terrified, furious knot.  “ _Wait!_   Hey, listen—”

Something hits him.  Mike’s blindsided by it, wasn’t paying attention, he doesn’t even see what they hit him with.  Whatever it was, it slams his head back against the rock they’re tied to.  Things go blurry and distant and too-fast for a second.  Texas is there and then he’s gone and the crowd is closing up, backs to the Burners.  Pieces of tarnished armor that used to be Deluxe-white.  “Fight!” people are chanting, and something makes an awful roaring, grinding noise.  “Fight!  Fight!  Fight!”

“Yeah, okay,” says Texas’s voice on the other side of the crowd, and he sounds wild, ready, almost fearless, but Mike can hear the slightest trace of nervous uncertainty in his voice.  “You wanna go?!  Let’s do this!”

“Get us out,” Mike says, tight and agonized, “We gotta go help him!”

“I’m trying!” Dutch breathes, and then yelps.  For a second Mike doesn’t know why—then a sharp jolt of tingling pain rushes up his arms from the cuffs around their wrists.  “Ow!   _Dammit_ , shit—lemme try…”

He keeps working, tugging and twisting at the cuffs more and more sharply, growling between his teeth as whatever he’s doing sets off more warning jolts of magic.  On the other side of the crowd, Texas yells and there’s a meaty  _THUD—_ the soldiers boo and Texas laughs, rough and breathless, and then lets out a roar of pain that’s almost drowned out by the renewed cheers of the crowd.  Mike jerks up without even thinking about it and then gasps as hot, stabbing pain lances up his arm again.  Even when he forces himself to sit back, the pain barely fades, and he has to grit his teeth on the faint, miserable whimper that’s trying to force its way out with every exhale.

“Mike?”  Julie is trying to twist around, see him.  “Are you okay?  What happened?!  Talk to me, Cowboy—”

“—‘M okay,” Mike rasps, and shudders as the thing Texas is fighting howls.  There’s more yelling outside now, light flashing, frenzied screaming, it sounds more like a pit of wild animals than people.  Mike’s ears are ringing, his mom is screaming in pain behind his eyes.  Jets of fire, shouts and cheers and snarls—

And then a crash, a yell of pain, and—and that’s not just a rowdy crowd any more.  The fiery flashes aren’t just in Mike’s imagination, not just from his memory, somebody is throwing around magic.  “Drop your weapons!” somebody shouts, and—and, oh.  Mike can almost smell the ozone in the air. 

"Oh," says Dutch, and laughs, breathless.  "Oh, man.  Geez,  _finally._ "

“It can't be him,” Julie says, “Not in person, the Duke wouldn't let him—” But people are dropping to their knees, hands held up in surrender, and Mike can see, now.  Raymanthian officers in black and grey mirage armor.  Texas still standing, holding his side--his tank-top is red all down one side, he's swaying where he stands, but he's grinning at something Mike can't see. 

“Okay,” he says blearily, and grins, teeth all bloody and hair messed up.  “Texas can totally see why Tiny’s so into you.  Tha’s hot.” 

Then he falls over. 

“Texas!”  Mike jerks forward, grunts in pain as his wrists stab with pain.  People are trying to get to him, check if he’s okay—he’s not, Texas is on the ground  _not moving_.  Mike jerks and tugs at his hands, not caring when it makes the cuffs slam into his bruised arms.  “No—no, get—is he okay?!  Get off, don’t worry about it, help him!”

“Mike!”  There are hands on his shoulders.  Mike tries to throw them off, struggling on instinct, and the voice says “Sir Chilton, be  _still._ ”

The command settles on him like cold iron on feverish skin.  Mike gasps, shudders, catches his breath.  The hands on his shoulders are Lord Vanquisher’s.  There’s a pale face in front of him, a golden crown. 

“Mike,” Chuck says again, softer.  “Listen to me.”

“Texas,” says Mike, and sits up, pulling at his chains again, voice cracking into half a scream as his wrist  _stabs_  with pain.  "Nnh!   _Texas!_ "

“—Will be okay!” Chuck finishes for him.  His eyes are wide, fixed on Mike’s; his hands pull away, but hover.  His tone keeps shifting, court formal to casual and back again like he keeps remembering himself.  “He’ll heal, Mike!  But you gotta—you _must_ lie back for me.  You're hurt."

"Please!" Mike says, half-frenzied, and Lord Vanquisher hesitates, lips thin and eyes big and wide and scared.  "Please, help him, help, you gotta, I couldn't help, Chuck  _please_!"

"Hey!  Hey, hey, shhh."  Chuck glances back over his shoulder--nobody here except them, him, Mike's Burners, Texas isn't here because he's  _hurt_  and-- "Mike--M-Mikey, he's  _fine._ It's not as bad as it looks, the healers are already working on him.  Shhh...breathe in through your nose for me.  Out through your mouth.  I'm gonna get these cuffs off and then you can go see him, okay?"

"In through your nose, Cowboy," Julie says, quiet and still hoarse, and her fingertips strain out and find Mike's.  "Slow breaths."

"It--y-yes," says the king, like he's startled by something, and Mike follows orders with an effort, struggling to force his breathing back under control.  "Yes, very good.  Take deep breaths."

"They killed my mom," Mike says, and swallows hard, hating the way his voice breaks on those words.  "They can't--not him too, they  _can't_ \--"

"Killed your—?”

"They’re…hunters, from Deluxe," Julie says.  There’s a tight, strained edge to her voice, hoarse.  “They killed his mom.  Took him.”

“Your mom,” Chuck repeats, and glances back over his shoulder, frowning.  Mike’s skin is prickling, the feeling of dragon magic is still thick in the air and he can’t tell if… “So…so they wanted to—?”

“They wanted to take him back to Kane,” Dutch says, hard. 

“But, they would have—”

“Because he’s _wanted_ ,” says Dutch.  There’s a heavy, pointed edge to his tone, and Lord Vanquisher stops, mouth open to keep talking, eyes flickering from Mike to Dutch and back.   Mike barely registers they’re talking—he can’t see Texas any more, there are people all around him, and Mike’s breathing like he was told but Chuck said he’d take the cuffs off and he _hasn’t_ —

“…Of…course,” Chuck says, and shakes his head.  “Yeah, I mean—yes.”

“ _Sire,_ ” Mike says, almost snapping.  “You said I could—”

“What?  Oh!”  the king scrambles forward on his knees, fumbling a little bit in the dark, runs one big, warm hand along Mike’s arm to his wrist.  His fingers work over the metal cuffs, feel out the place they’re biting into Mike’s skin.  “…Ah.”

“These things are freakin’ nasty,” Dutch says.  “They won’t transmute, they won’t animate…”

“No, well, I would expect nothing less,” the king says, and there’s a very bitter edge to his voice.  “These were made for mage-breaking.  Regular suppressor cuffs keep your troops from regenerating their magical power after battles, every good _king_ knows that.”   His fingers press at the cuffs, testing the metal, and Mike resists the urge to groan as his wrist gives a warning throb.  Chuck doesn’t seem to notice.  He’s still talking, voice falling to an absent mumble.  “ _…put a fff—a punishment spell in and feed them just enough they won’t get fever if they don’t try anything—_ ”

“Can you get them _off?_ ” Julie says.  That edge is still in her voice, more pronounced now.  Chuck glances over at her, and Mike sees a twitch of something like embarrassment cross his face in the dark.  Self-consciousness. 

“Yes,” he says, and pushes himself up.  Mike shivers as the warmth of his touch pulls away; it’s that much harder to control himself, to keep taking deep breaths, when he doesn’t have anything to ground himself with.  The king stands over him, extends a hand that sparks and burns, and Mike can’t help but wince.  “I am _more_ than capable.”

There’s a rush of heat, a flash of light, and the chains burst apart.  Mike yells in pain as his arm drops abruptly, and Chuck flinches, jerking like he wants to drop to his knees again.  “Mike!  Are you—i-injured?”

“His wrist is broken, I think,” says Julie, and pushes herself up.  She has to catch herself and lean against the rock they were tied to.  Mike wants to reach out to her, but he has to get up first.  He’s gotta move.  “He doesn’t care.  We need to get him over there.”

“Julie,” says Mike, and grabs the king’s arm, pulls himself up.  His head is throbbing, a full, rotten, vicious ache behind one eye.  One of these days he’s gonna stop getting concussions every couple of days, but—no, not important.  Doesn’t matter.  “Jules.  Okay?  You okay?”

“I’m okay,” says Julie, really quietly.

“But…” Mike tries to reach out to her, and Julie goes tensed up all over, jerking away from his hands.  “Sorry.  Sorry!  Sorry, I just…”

“I know,” says Julie.  “Don’t.  Okay?  Not right now.”  And Mike would stop, stay there with her, try to help, except Texas makes a noise like he’s in pain, and it’s quiet but it cuts through to Mike like they’re in dead silence.  Dutch puts a hand on his arm and shakes his head, and Mike forces himself to turn away, to breathe out, to lean on Dutch’s arm and be led away.  Julie doesn’t want him around right now.  Just right now.  That’s okay.  Texas needs him right now.

Once he gets there, though, there’s nothing he can do.  Texas is surrounded by people, bandaging gashes and working healing magic.  His eyes are shut and his face looks peaceful, but that could just be—he could just be—

“Sir Chilton, I need you to stand back,” says one of the mages.  A man, wearing light, cobbled-together armor and a makeshift mask over his mouth and nose.  “I have to debride these.” 

“But—is he—”

“He’s lost a lot of blood, and he loses more the longer he isn’t healed,” says the mage, very clear and brutally honest, “and he can’t be healed until I clean out his wounds and I need you to be out of my way, _now_ please.”

Dutch has a swollen eye and a bloody nose.  They hit him too, Mike almost forgot, and it’s their fault Julie won’t talk to him and, and…

“You need the attention of a healer, Sir Chilton,” says one of the soldiers, and tries to take his arm.   Mike jerks away, staring around, looking for that tarnished white armor.  “You’re going to hurt yourself—please, sit down.”

“Where are they?!” Mike snaps. 

“We’re taking the prisoners back to the capitol—”

“No.” 

“Sir Chilton, the law of the kingdom says that any—”

“ _No!_ ” They’ll get free, they’ll hurt more people, they’ll try to take them from him, they _can’t._   Mike turns, staggering and in pain, scared and lost and furious.  “No, where are they?!  I need…”

A hand takes his shoulder.  Mike tries to shake it off but it squeezes harder, and a voice says “ _By your oath and loyal heart_ …”

Something reaches inside Mike and pulls taut, a jolt like a sudden cold breeze.  He stops, shivering, startled.

“ _You are worn thin and have hurts in need of healing,_ ” says the voice in his ear, and Mike…knows that voice.  Magic wound into the words.  “ _Sleep._ ”

Mike sleeps.

\--

Somebody must heal him while he’s out, because when Mike wakes up he’s lying on a bed next to a window, his wrist is bandaged and his shoulders aren’t throbbing anymore.  He turns blearily, looking out the window and then has to kind of hold onto the bed to steady himself because wow, he’s high up.

There’s nobody there.  His sword is lying on a table next to the bed, along with a clean, folded set of his clothes and a vial of something vaguely murky that smells like herbs and mud. 

It tastes about how it smells.  Mike grimaces, finishes it off in one swig and pushes himself up out of bed.  He’s had these things before—he doesn’t have time to wait around for the energy rush to kick in.  He’s got things to do. 

…Things he _would_ do, if anybody would tell him where the freaking dungeons are!

“No-one’s allowed in the dungeons,” says the first guard he stops.  “And there are hundreds of floors, and a lot of them are off-limits—"

“What do you mean, nobody’s allowed in?” Mike says.  “You can’t have a— _secret_ dungeon, there’s gotta be guards—”

“No guards,” says the guard, a little apologetically.  “Sorry, Sir Smiling Dragon.  The Duke’s traps are good enough guards, he says.  He’s the one who does most of the…putting people in dungeons, anyway, so we don’t—”  She must catch sight of his expression, because she stops and just sighs instead.  “…Sorry, Sir,” she repeats.  Hesitates, fidgeting a little, and then suggests, “…You could ask the king?”

Mike blinks.  “The king.”

“Yeah?”  She shrugs with one shoulder, glances him up and down.  “…he must like you pretty well, you’re the first mercs he’s let into the kingdom since he took over.  And I heard he went out after you personally last night when you went missing.”

“He…he did.”

“I saw him going out,” the guard confides.  “I could see him out the window, he was all lit up, like, _covered_ in magic, it was crazy.  So.  You should….go ask him.  That’s what I would do.”

“Yeah,” says Mike, and backs toward the elevator.  “Yeah!  Thanks!”

He doesn’t knock when he bursts through into Chuck’s office, which is probably why he immediately has to dive to one side as a white-hot bolt of magic almost takes his head off his shoulders.  Mike rolls, lands on his feet and then yelps as something invisible sweeps his feet out from under him and slams him back down into the ground.

“Who—?!” Chuck starts, shrill and hard, and then falters.  “M—Mike?!”

“Sorry!” says Mike, and holds his hands up.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh, startle you?”  He scrambles back up onto his knees, and then back to his feet when Lord Vanquisher doesn’t seem inclined to knock him back down.  The king is staring at him, hands still raised, shoulders heaving.  “It’s still before sunset, so, uh…”

“My willingness to accept company notwithstanding, you should have better sense than to _burst_ in unannounced!” the king says, still high and strangled with shock and…formal.  Still formal.  Mike’s stomach twists the same way it did at the party, seeing Chuck watch him from across the room with that look of disapproval in his eyes.  “What is this about?”

“I…it’s…” Mike swallows, and then, tentatively, tries again.  “I was advised to come to you, sire.”

He doesn’t know if he’s imagining the way Chuck’s expression twitches at the court formal—he sits back down, picks up the pen he dropped when Mike slammed through the door.  “There are very few matters  I can address for you that the Duke cannot,” he says, and his eyes definitely narrow when that makes Mike grimace.  “Is this one of those?”

“N-no.  Yes.  I’m not sure.”

“And you asked him first?” He knows the answer, it’s written in every syllable.  Mike falters for a second, but--but he can't back down on this.  He _can't._

 “Sire,” he says, and presses his hands to the desk, struggling to keep his voice steady.  “…Where are they?”

The king’s mouth thins, his eyes dart away.  “Mike,” he starts.  “Listen—”

Somebody knocks on the door, hard and urgent.  Immediately, all the uncertainty in Chuck’s eyes vanishes, transmuted into abrupt, focused fear.  

“You shouldn’t be—” he starts in a frantic hiss, and makes an agonized noise, glancing from Mike to the door.  “We can’t—hide!”

He may not mean it as an order, but it feels like one.  Mike stares around the room, the waist-high stacks of books and total lack of convenient hiding places, and then dives forward, yanks Chuck’s chair back and dives under his desk.  Chuck muffles a startled noise, almost overbalancing, and then hastily shoves his chair back in and sits up straight as some outer door opens.

“Is everything alright in there, sire?!” somebody calls, and raps once on the door.  Chuck takes a couple of deep breaths, tries to fit his legs around Mike—Mike twists himself to fit.   The desk is big and there’s enough space for him to curl up there, but barely.   He has to turn awkwardly and fit himself between Chuck’s knees, head down to avoid slamming it on the underside of the desk.  All of that also means that his cheek keeps brushing one of Chuck’s thighs, that Mike’s close enough again to feel how warm he is, to see him breathing, to  _smell_ him—no, focus.  Focus on—something, something else. 

 “The reports for the most recent mission, my king,” a woman is saying, somewhere overhead.  It’s not the Duke—Mike shifts, half-thinking to get out of there, uneasy in the tight space and a hundred times more uneasy with the things his body is trying to make him want.  But when he moves, the king’s leg twitches hard, his breathing hitches overhead.  "I thought I heard something..."

Mike goes still again, squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again when that makes every smell and sensation snap into sharper focus.  It’s dark, and close and he can’t get out and he doesn’t  _want_ to get out and he has to get out, he’s suffocating here.  He wants to rub his face against the king’s leg and hear him gasp, and he wants to burst out and  _breathe,_ he can’t seem to get any air, and the air he does get is full of—smells, sweat, the soap they use in the laundry here, something spicy-sweet that might be cologne. 

“An experimental spell,” Chuck is saying overhead.  “Set them—no, those documents are for research.  Do these require review or signature?”

“Signature, Lord Vanquisher.”

Chuck doesn’t sigh, but Mike can hear it in his voice overhead when he says “Very well.  Please.”

Mike can’t get out.  He has his orders.  He can’t breathe.  He has his orders.  He takes a few gasping breaths, struggling to stay quiet, and then gives in and rests his face against the inside of Chuck’s knee, squeezing his eyes shut.  Overhead, Chuck’s voice falters—his leg twitches.

Then, very slowly, he shifts his weight in his seat and presses back against Mike’s cheek.  Mike breathes, turns his face into the fine fabric and muffles the stupid, choking whimper that tries to sneak into every breath.  In the dark, one of his hands finds Chuck’s leg, closes on one pant-leg and holds on so tight his fingers ache.

It feels like an eternity before the woman with the papers says "My humblest thanks, Lord Vanquisher," and there's the rustle of papers being picked up.  "I will take these to the appropriate offices."

"Thank you," says Chuck.  His other knee jumps a little against Mike's side, a sharp little bounce of nerves or boredom or annoyance.  "Please close the doors on your way out."

They're both still and silent for a long second after the door closes--and then Chuck shoves his chair back, almost toppling Mike forward as the leg he's leaning against is pulled away.  Mike catches himself on one hand, the other one still clinging desperately--rests his forehead against one bony knee and gasps as fresh air hits his face.

"Mike?!"

"Nnuh," Mike mumbles. He wants to get up, get out of there, but his legs are kind of...shaking, kind of a lot.  He can't seem to breathe normally, his breaths are coming fast and ragged.  It's over, he made it, he did it.  It's done now, he did a good job for his king.

"Mike?" Lord Vanquisher's hand touches his head cautiously, frames his jaw and turns his face up.  Mike lets himself be moved, eyes bleary and heart throbbing in his chest.  His eyes and face feel weirdly hot and tight, he feels like he just fought a hundred battles in a row.  "Oh my god, dude, are you okay?"

It feels so nice to hear him say that, and it takes Mike a long minute to realize that’s because Chuck’s not speaking formally to him anymore.  "Just," Mike manages, between gasps, dry-mouthed and shaky.  "Just.  Small.  Couldn't--breathe.  'M fine."

" _What?_ " says Chuck, and Mike flinches but the king doesn't laugh at him for being stupid, or tell him  _of course you could breathe, what are you talking about._ He looks pretty much completely freaked out.  "Oh my god,  _Mike_!  You didn't tell me you were claustrophobic!”

“I didn’t know I—I’m what?!”  Mike says helplessly, still kind of wheezing, and Chuck gapes at him and then groans and drags his hands down his face.

"Come on," he says, and scoots his chair back, pulling coaxingly at Mike's shoulders.  "Come on, let's get you outta there--jesus, Mike, I would have just told her to go away if I knew you were--"

“You’re…talking to me again,” Mike says, because there’s more important stuff to worry about—and definitely not because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand up right now.  His legs still feel about as solid as wet sand.  “Thought I made you—you were mad at me.  ‘M sorry.”

“ _Mike._ ” Lord Vanquisher chews on his lip for a second.  His expression is doing something Mike can’t make sense of, definitely upset.  Sad, maybe, or maybe Mike just made him mad again.  “It’s not about what I…look.  I know how you’re gonna feel about this, but it’s just…when I didn’t show up after the battle, outside the walls I mean, the D—”

And then, outside, a door slams open.  Chuck bolts upright, staring at the door, and he looked shocked and nervous last time but this time he looks  _terrified._

"No," he says.  "No, no no no no,  _no!_   He can't--he's gonna kill me,  _fuck!_ "

"What?" Mike says, and then Chuck shoots him a terrible, wide-eyed look and he knows.  Mike draws in a breath, then another one; glances back at the door, then up at his king, and sees the pleading in Chuck's eyes. 

"Y-you don't have to," Chuck says, but his voice is wobbling and trembling so badly and his chest is rising and falling almost as fast as Mike's.  "I can't make you--"

He can't, but he has to.  He will, he has to.  Mike tries for a reassuring smile and fails really badly at both.  "It's okay," he says, fast and low and desperate.  And then, helpless to stop himself, "...Just--can I--is it okay if I still..."

"Of course."  Chuck glances up at the door, back down at Mike, and there's an awful look on his face, utter, shattered gratitude mixed with a kind of sickly guilt.  "Thank you.  Thank you so much."

Mike takes a deep breath and sinks back into the too-close darkness, and the king pulls his chair forward and blocks out the light just as the door slams open.  Mike tries to straighten his back and breathe, work through it--he can't raise his head all the way, can't open his lungs all the way.  His eyes are stinging, his breath is coming faster--

He doesn't even hesitate this time; he presses his face against Chuck's leg and holds on tight, focusing on the smell of him.  Chuck presses back into the touch, and one hand slides off the arm of his chair and touches Mike's head for just a second, a wordless press of comforting coolness before it pulls away again.

"...Duke," Lord Vanquisher says, and his voice only trembles a little bit.  

"Don't ' _Duke'_  me," heavy footsteps, the click of a cane.  "Did you think I wasn't going to find  _out_?!"

"Find out?" Chuck repeats, and the thigh Mike is leaning against is going so tense the muscle feels like drawn wire, every inch of him going still.

"Don't give me that  _bullshit_!" The Duke's cane thumps against the ground with an awful, ringing clang of metal on tile.  "How many times have I told you not to go out there?!"

Chuck takes a sharp little breath, lets it out again.  His legs are shaking faintly, now, but the tone of his voice is familiar; weirdly flat, quiet and unhappy and almost timid.  "I had to," he says.  "I'm the only one who had a strong enough connection to do a tracking spell."

"So you  _stepped up_ ," the Duke says, and there's a very nasty tone to his voice.  "Whisked it right out from under your militia's noses.  Way to make them feel trusted, my boy, smartly done."

"They were--it was fine," Chuck says, but there's a waver of uncertainty under his voice.  "They couldn't have found him fast enough.  They should have had militia backup, if you'd told me you were sending them--"

"Don't change the subject," the Duke says sharply.  "Wouldn't've found  _him_?   We _just_ talked about this.  _Yesterday!_   Tell me you remember that, I’m not just talkin’ to the mess of hormones where your brain used to be."

The leg Mike's leaning on shifts a little.  "Duke," says Chuck, an edge of pleading in his voice.  "...Don't."

"Don't  _hwhat,_ your  _majesty_?  Don't tell you the truth?"  The Duke's footsteps get closer--Mike tenses up and then jumps as something  _cracks_  on the wood overhead. "You're being  _led.  On!_ You told me you were gonna put Chilton back in his place.  And when I told you that place hwas _under you_ , I didn’t mean—"

"They wouldn't have made it if I hadn't," Chuck says, but he doesn't say it loud enough and the Duke isn't listening, just talking on and on.  

"—a target painted on your back a mile wide, you don't go swanning off across open countryside to deal with  _bandits_!  You're not cannon-fodder any more, and you need to stop  _acting_ like it!"

His cane hits the desk again on the word "acting", an awful, earsplitting slam.  Mike jerks again, feels Chuck jump too.  The shaking in his legs is more pronounced now, and Mike's nose may not be as sharp as it used to be, but he knows the smell of fear.  

“…The ringleaders won’t be bothering you anymore,” says the Duke.  Vicious, almost casual.  “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“What?!” Chuck shifts, like he wants to stand up—Mike lurches forward, startled, and Chuck settles back down.  Mike can’t breathe, he— _won’t be bothering you_ —he didn’t.  He can’t have.  “Duke, I didn’t want—I never agreed to—”

“If I hadn’t done it, Chilton would have,” says the Duke dismissively, and Mike grinds his teeth, wanting to deny it and not sure he can, wanting to snarl because _damn right he would_.  “They were enemies of the crown.”

“They were _prisoners!_ ”

“Hwell yes, that’s what makes it a royal execution,” says the Duke, “instead of…oh, what’s that ugly word people throw around.  Murder.  Would you rather I killed ‘em _free-range?_ ”

“He wouldn’t have—this isn’t—” 

“You think he _wouldn’t_ have?”  The Duke laughs.  “Are you tellin’ me if you had the low-lives in front of you who killed your folks, you’d show them _king’s mercy?”_

There’s a long moment of silence.  When Chuck answers, his voice is very small.  “…Mike’s not me,” he says, and Mike presses his face against Chuck’s knee and presses his lips tight together to muffle a faint, awful groan. 

“Oh well no, of course _,_ ” the Duke says, and there’s a sneer in his voice, cold and forbidding.  “Perfect Sir Chilton, your…white knight.  You're letting how you feel about this backwoods  _merc_ make you stupid!"

“I’m…I-I’m not stupid!”

“No, you’re not,” says the Duke, sharp and snapping.  “Why do you think I put up with you?!”

There’s a moment of pure, painful, singing tension.  Chuck is trembling, not answering, and Mike wants him to _say_ something, doesn’t want to hear what he’d say. 

The Duke sighs a great, dramatic sigh.  The desk creaks like he's leaning on it.

"Don't give me that look," he says, almost gently.  

"I'm not," says Chuck, soft and strangled.  "I'm--I'm not.  I know."

"You keep on sayin' that," says the Duke--casual, but with an edge.  "But you don't ever quite act like it, now do you?"

"...Sorry," Chuck mumbles.  

"Honestly," the Duke sighs.  "If I didn't know how you'd get about it, I'd tell you to just take your roll in the hay and move on.  But you'd get attached, I know you. _Sentimental._ "

"Sorry."

"You'll grow out of it," The Duke says airily.  "I just have to put up with you until you do.  I'm a patient man, I'll handle it."

"Sorry."

"Would you stop sayin' that?" The Duke snaps.  "What did I say about that whole business?"

"....Kings aren't sorry," Chuck says, guilty, embarrassed, too quiet.  "Sor--uh.  I-I mean..."

The Duke bursts out laughing.  Chuck jumps all over, and Mike bares his teeth in the stifling darkness.  He wants to burst out, to snarl in the Duke's face,  _stop scaring my king_  (my  _Chuck_ , my-- _mine_ \--).  But he keeps seeing Chuck's face in his head, the way he looked at Mike when he heard the Duke coming.   _He's gonna kill me_.  

"I swear," the Duke says, half-fond, half-annoyed.  "What would you do without me?"

"I'd be dead," Chuck says, immediate like he doesn't even have to think about it.  Some of the tension is relaxing out of him as the Duke's mood seems to turn sunny again.  The trembling has faded to intermittent shivers.  "S--th-thank you."

"Mm.  You're welcome."  The Duke taps his cane against the ground a couple of times, slow and thoughtful.  "...I heard you did good work out there.  That isn't nothing."

"O-oh!"  Chuck stammers for a second, and Mike digs his nails into one of his own thighs at the hope and excitement in his king's voice.  Open and vulnerable as a fresh wound.  ( _Thank you, sir!  I-I mean, your imperial majesty, um, sir...)_ "--I--thanks!  They, uh...they can't just steal my soldiers, uh, from me.  I had to...teach them a lesson."  There's a thread of awful, hopeful uncertainty to the words, and he's rewarded by another laugh.

"Hwell, next time make 'em pay with your army," says the Duke.  "That's what they're  _for._  But that's not too far from kingly of you, my boy."

Mike can't make a sound, he  _can't,_ he'll turn the Duke's fury back on his king, Chuck will  _hate_ him _._ Mike can't come out and he can't breathe and he can't make a sound and he can't bear this _\--we find your honor impeccable, your skills unmatched, your loyalty beyond reproach.  From this day on you are knighted_ Sir  _Chilton, right hand to the throne--_

 _"_ Thanks," says Chuck, warm and quiet and self-consciously proud, and Mike squeezes his eyes shut and muffles a tiny, awful whimper in his chest as fury and pain and old hurt pour over him.  His head is swimming, spinning.  He can't breathe.  Somewhere in his head, a voice is ringing out, young and bright and so, so happy, lit up with joy.  Honored beyond belief, on top of the world.   _I will defend the throne of Deluxe to my dying breath and follow the orders of my emperor without question or hesitation!  I swear my honor, and my life..._

_\--_

Mike wakes up on a couch, with a wet rag over his eyes.  It feels really nice, and he feels kind of really bad, so he doesn't move right away.  His chest hurts, but that's not new.  His eyes and head also hurt, which kind of is.

"Mike?"

Oh, shoot, Mike knows that voice.  Chuck--

The Duke. 

 _"Chuck,_ " Mike says hoarsely, and pushes himself up, snatching the rag off his face.  "Sire.  Chuck?!"

"Whoa!" the king is there, pushing him back down again.  Pale and worried.  "Take it easy.  You--you passed out."

"I... _passed out?_ " Mike repeats, a little incredulously.  And then, because some things are more important, "--is he gone?  Did he hurt you?"

"What?" it's Chuck's turn to look incredulous.  "Who?  The Duke?  He was just--no, it's fine, I'm--he was just worried about me.  He left a couple of seconds after you blacked out."

"You're okay," Mike says, and he can't keep himself from looking Chuck over anyway, looking for bruises, for some sign of pain in his eyes.  "He didn't hurt you."

"He wouldn't do that," Chuck says firmly.  And then, before Mike can argue that he's  _pretty sure_ slamming the cane down a couple inches from Chuck is close enough, that the Duke just casually came in here and confessed to killing at least three people— "what happened?  Are you okay?"

“It was…it was just…” there’s no way to say it, nothing he can say.  _Don’t mess up the same way I did,_ that won’t help.  Chuck thinks it’s okay, thinks the Duke yells because he cares, and Mike doesn’t know how to put what he’s feeling into words.  Doesn’t even know where to start.  The people who killed Mike’s mom and hurt his friends are dead, and he didn’t have to be the one to hurt them, and he hates that he’s grateful.  Hates that the guy he’s grateful is somebody who’d tear Chuck up like that.

“I just…” he starts again, and can’t.  Sits back again and shakes his head.  “Couldn’t breathe.”

“I know.”  Chuck’s face twists.  “God, I’m really sorry, dude.  I couldn’t…and, and I’m sorry you had to hear all of…that.  I didn’t tell him I was going out before I left to help you guys, he was just…worried.”

“We’d be dead,” Mike croaks.  “If you had.  He wouldn’t’ve let you go.  Texas would be…”

He can’t finish that sentence.  Chuck must see the horror starting to rise up in him, because he holds out his hands, soothing.  “I did, though,” he says.  “I came, you’re okay, he’s safe now.”

“I know,” Mike says, but it feels amazing to be reminded anyway.  It feels so, so good.  “I know.  You saved us.”  He pushes himself up, a little at a time, bows as well as he can still sitting down, deep and grateful.  “…We owe you our lives.  I…owe you my life.”

It’s another ancient debt, a bargain from before words were made to hold it.  He can see Chuck shiver as he feels the power Mike’s giving him, the debt he’s offering.  “I, _hh_ ,” Chuck starts, and shudders again, a trembling gasp.  “Oh, geez, dude, you don’t have to—I just…had to help, it’s fine.”

 _It’s fine._   Mike almost laughs.  “I owe you my life,” he repeats.  “I won’t forget that.  The debt won’t go unpaid.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Chuck lets out a long, shivering sigh.  “Okay,” he says, and it’s not traditional but it’s _true_.  A bargain struck.  “Geez, Mike, I…okay.  I’m…I am honored to accept your debt.”

Mike looks up at him and grins, and Chuck smiles back at him kind of helplessly and geez, if he’s a dragon-tamer Mike’s really in trouble.  Chuck could collar him right now.  Mike’s not even sure he’d fight it.

But he doesn’t.  Instead he stands up and holds out a hand.  “Come on,” he says.  “I’m taking you back to your room.  You’ve had a crazy day.”

“But,” Mike starts, and then tries to stand up and has to physically force his legs to bear up under his weight.  “O-okay.  Yeah, thanks.”

\--

Chuck drops him off outside his room, with strict orders to call if Mike starts to get dizzy again.  Or, just, if he needs something.  If it’s before sundown, of course.  Unless…Mike needs somebody to talk to.  About…this stuff.

He doesn’t specify what “this stuff” is, and Mike’s too busy enjoying being close to him again to really care until the king kind of half-shoves him through the door and closes it gently behind him.  Nobody’s in there except Dutch, who sits up immediately and stares.  “Mike!” he says, “Where’d you go, man?!”

“Report,” says Mike.  “For the king.  Where’s Julie?”

“I called her,” Dutch says.  “She says she’s gotta…get her head straight around stuff.  I think…those guys bein’ from Deluxe, and…what they did…it messed her up.  And thinking they were gonna take her back to her dad?”  He shudders a little bit.

Mike doesn’t like that at all, that Julie’s somewhere and hurting and doesn’t want her flight there, but he can’t go hunt her down either.  Too much has happened today, way too fast.  “Okay,” he says.  “Texas?”

“Down in the medical center on floor…thirty-somethin’,” Dutch says, and then grabs Mike’s arm as he turns back toward the door.  “But we’re not allowed to go in and see him.  They said we should let him rest.”

“But…” Mike lets himself be pulled over and settled down next to the camp stove, but he can’t stop glancing back at the door, already trying to figure out the route in his head.  “Is he okay?  Is he gonna be okay?  What’d they say about—?"

“He’s gonna be fine,” says Dutch firmly.  “Mike, settle down, man.”

Mike’s opening his mouth to protest that he’s _plenty_ settled, but he needs to make sure if Texas—when a pair of thin, strong hands settles on his shoulders, fingers working into the tense muscle of his neck.  Mike lets out a startled groan as his skin prickles all over—it hurts, it aches, it feels so _good._

“I’m…settled,” he says, hoarse, and catches his breath as Dutch’s hands work their way lower, between his shoulder-blades.  There aren’t wings there any more, just an aching, knotted mess.  It hurts so bad some nights it seems to go all the way up behind his eyes, all the way down his spine into his hips.  It just _aches_.  “I’m okay, seriously— _ahh, hh_ ah—!  Mm…”

“You’re seriously not,” Dutch says, and shoves at his shoulder.  “Lie down.”

He says it like a suggestion, but Mike’s never been able to say no to his Burners.  He crumples over, lands on his back and grins up at Dutch.  “…Okay?” he says, and Dutch rolls his eyes and pokes vengefully at Mike’s stomach where his T-shirt is riding up.  Mike yelps and curls in on himself, and Dutch takes the opportunity to shove him over onto his side and then tip him onto his belly and pin him there with a knee on his butt.

“Stop wigglin’ around down there,” he says, mock-severely, as Mike squirms and tries to reach around to poke him in revenge.  “Do you want a backrub or not, Mike?”

God, does he ever.  Mike sighs and stops struggling, and Dutch’s knee shifts off him.  There’s a rustle, and then a pillow is abruptly shoved into Mike’s face.  He takes it, pushes it under his head and chest and settles obediently back down.

“Cool,” says Dutch.  “Good.”  He sounds pleased, and Mike honestly can’t help the little shiver of warmth in his chest at that.  Any more than he can help the much sharper shudder that hits him when Dutch kneels down next to him, _over_ him, one leg swinging over Mike so Dutch is kneeling up over his back with both hands on Mike’s shoulders. 

At this angle Dutch has way more leverage to work his knuckles between Mike’s shoulderblades, leaning his weight into his hands as he mercilessly works over the knots in Mike’s back.  Mike shudders and barely catches a startled groan when the first nasty cramp rolls under Dutch’s grip—by the fifth, he isn’t even bothering to try, just humming and groaning and sighing appreciatively.  Dutch’s hands are warm through Mike’s T-shirt, and his fingers are strong and sure and the ache in Mike’s chest is going softer and easier to handle with every minute that passed.  It feels good, right, being laid out under his—under— _Dutch’s_ hands like this, baring his back and the nape of his neck.  Unguarded.

There’s not as many knots in his sides or his lower back, but the touch still feels amazing.  Mike hums softly in the back of his throat, shifting restlessly to arch his back as Dutch’s hands work lower.  There’s a place right above the waistband of his jeans, another tense ache of _not-there-should-be_ that he doesn’t even really think about any more—when Dutch’s hands reach it he pauses.  Goes _“…hm_.” Rubs again, a little harder, and the sudden throb of a touch where there’s only been tension for so long makes Mike catch his breath on something really close to a whimper.  It _hurts,_ but it’s a good hurt.  Stretching, uncramping. 

“Mike?” Dutch says, really softly.  “You okay?”  His hands have stopped moving.  “You’re not hurt, right?”

“Mm-mm,” says Mike, which is about all he can do in the way of words right now.  Maybe it’s the stress wearing off, maybe it’s just— _being touched—_ whatever it is, the warmth that’s loosening his back seems to be working its way up into his brain too, turning his thoughts slow and lazy and simple.  He shifts restlessly, huffs a frustrated breath when Dutch doesn’t take a hint, and then hitches his hips a little, arching his spine into the warm pressure of those amazing hands.  Dutch makes a startled noise and sways, unbalanced—his butt lands on Mike’s thighs, his hands grab Mike’s hips and _oh_ , that feels right.  That feels really nice and right.

“Uh,” says Dutch, and he sounds kind of hoarse and rough.  He pushes himself back up immediately, which sucks, and then pulls his hands away, which sucks even more.  “Sorry!  I’ll get off.”

“Nnno!” Mike says, dismayed, and twists, trying to stare back over his shoulder, reaching out blindly for Dutch’s wrist.  “No dude, come on.  No, I’m…no, don’t go—Dutch, please.”

“Whoa!  Whoa.”  Dutch settles back a little, cautiously, rests both hands on Mike’s back and just presses gently.  The pressure pins him against the floor, and it’s solid and reassuring in a way that’s hard to put words around.  Mike closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting that weird, unhappy desperation fade back down again.  “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Mike.  I’m not leaving.   Seriously, you okay?”

Mike nods into the pillow, because…he is, he’s okay, he’s fine.  He just doesn’t want to be alone right now, he can’t see Texas when he’s hurt and Julie’s all pale and doesn’t want to be touched, and Chuck is scared to talk to him, and Mike’s tired and stressed and sore and _lonely_. 

 “You know it’s cool if—you’re not okay.  Right?”

“I _am_ okay,” Mike says, knee-jerk fast, but something in his stomach gives a weird, startled lurch at the words.  Dutch doesn’t answer for a long, long second—then he sits up, keeping his hand heavy between Mike’s shoulderblades.

“Do you want me to go?”

He doesn’t say it like a threat, and it isn’t one, that would be dumb, but it sends another rush of stupid unhappiness and fear through Mike’s whole body.  Slowly, just a little bit, he shakes his head.  Dutch makes a quiet, considering noise and rubs a slow circle on Mike’s back. 

“Okay,” he says.  “So I won’t.  I’m gonna go get my sketchbook, though.”

He waits a second, like he’s expecting Mike to object again.  Mike bites his lip stubbornly on any stupid, complaining sounds that want to come out of his mouth, and lies there still and quiet.  Dutch pats his back one last time and then pushes himself up and walks off.  Mike closes his eyes, buries his face in the pillow and counts seconds in his head.

Dutch comes back after 76 seconds.  He doesn’t settle back down straddling Mike’s back—his hand pats Mike’s head, insistent.  “Get up, dude,” he says.  “Move over.”

Mike lets himself be guided upright, moved where Dutch wants him, and Dutch gets himself settled down next to the camp stove with his back against the couch, puts the pillow on top of his legs and then pats it meaningfully.  Mike doesn’t even have the energy to be ashamed of the way he immediately crawls over and drops onto it, curling up with his head in Dutch’s lap. 

“There you go,” Dutch says quietly, like he’s happy, and just kinda…rests his left hand on Mike’s head, just cupping the back of his skull and pressing a little bit.  “…Can I draw you?”

Oh.  That’s—kind of a weird thought, and not what Mike was expecting at all.  He sits up again and glances down at himself, then back up at Dutch, dubious.  Dutch grins at him.  Okay, so he’s…serious.  Okay then.

“Should I…?” Mike starts, because he’s seen art before, and he kinda knows how it goes.  He hooks his hands on the hem of his shirt and pulls at it, then glances up at Dutch.  Dutch’s eyes kind of widen a little bit, like he’s surprised—so…maybe not…?

“You…you can, if you want,” says Dutch.  His eyes are still wide.  “I wasn’t gonna ask, but—muscles are always, uh.  I mean, reference is—” he stops, clears his throat,  and doesn’t finish whatever he was saying.  But that sounds like a yes.  Satisfied, Mike peels his T-shirt off and settles back down again with a soft sigh, burying his face in the pillow, throwing one arm over Dutch’s long legs.  Vaguely, he's aware of the long, vivid stripe of the oath-breaker scar, burned down his chest.  As long as fifteen years of loyal service, as dark as the bad blood his broken word left behind. 

It doesn't matter, though.  Dutch knows.  He's not gonna think Mike's a traitor, or weak, untrustworthy, nothing like that.  He knows.  

Mike still shivers when Dutch’s hand touches his back, traces one shoulderblade and takes his arm, pulling a little.  “Can you…move this arm, just…up, like this."  Dutch guides his arm up over his head, pulls him a little further onto his side so his arm arcs up over his head and his spine twists gently.  Mike opens his eyes, and Dutch is looking down at him, smiling, kind of staring.  For art or something, probably.  Art seems to need a lot of staring.  His fingertips are soft on the inside of Mike’s upper arm.

"Ha," Dutch says, "Wow.  Yeah, that's--good."

"Mm," says Mike again, vague and foggy, and yawns.  "Cool."

Dutch's pencil scritches. For a minute or two, that’s the only sound.

“…I wouldn’t be okay,” he says finally, quietly.  “If it was me.  If somebody…hurt my mom, or my dad.  Or Dar.  If you wanted to talk—”

“They’re dead,” says Mike.  He holds still—Dutch is still drawing—but his hand finds Dutch’s leg, closes tight on his jeans.  “…The Duke.  _Took care of it._ He said.”

Dutch’s pencil stops moving.  There’s silence for a second, then he reaches out and lays a cautious hand on Mike’s back, rubbing up and down between his shoulderblades.  “Wow,” he says.  “…That’s…a lot.  You doin’ okay?”

Empty reassurances try to push to the surface— _yeah_ and _I’m fine_ and _don’t worry about it._   Dutch’s hand is warm on his back.

“Dunno,” says Mike.

“Okay.”  Dutch takes a breath, runs his knuckles gently down Mike’s cheekbone.  It’s so shockingly gentle it startles an inhuman sound out of him, a rattly little hissing gasp.  Dutch doesn’t seem to notice.  Just leaves his hand there, touching Mike’s face.  “Okay.”

They don’t talk after that.  Dutch murmurs occasionally, shifting Mike from position to position, settling back down and sketching some more—Mike lets himself be moved. 

He’s curled up by the stove, knees pulled up to his chest, when the sound of Dutch’s pencil stops again.

“Hang on, man,” he says, and reaches up to his earring.  “…Yeah?”

“ _—To the medical center on the thirty-eighth floor of the south tower,_ ” says the message, when he unravels it from his earring for Mike to hear.  “ _Sir Lone Star is awake._ ”

\--

Texas is sitting up in bed when Mike comes in.  his hair is down, and he seems to be making a concerted attempt to slick it back again with his hands.  By the aggravated look on his face, it’s not working very well.  He brightens up considerably at the sight of Mike and Dutch. 

“Hey!” he says.  “Guess we won, huh?”

“Hey,” says Mike, kind of small and hoarse.  “H-hey, Tex.  How you feelin’?”

“Good!” says Texas, and then winces a little, one hand going up to his side.  “Texas is totally good.   _Nnghf._ Ffffine.  Where’s Stacy?”

“Getting her head straight,” Dutch says. “…She’ll come see you later, I bet.”

“Yeah, well she better,” Texas says.  “Texas almost _died._   Except, y’know, I was gonna win.”

“Of course you were, big guy.”  Mike grins as Texas gets himself upright in bed, rolling his neck and shoulders with a truly impressive series of pops and cracks.  “Looked like it was…pretty rough out there.”

“Well they got some kinda thing like a pig but _crazy_ ,” says Texas, “Never saw a pig with teeth that big.”

“A…boar?”

“Nuh-uh _you_ are,” Texas says, and moves on immediately before Dutch can answer that one.  “Anyway their crazy pig-thing got a pretty good chunk outta me, but then before I could go all _Texas Twister_ on it there’s the king guy, blastin’ people in the face and junk.” He grins, twitches his eyebrows at Mike.  “Pretty hot.”

“Quit it,” says Mike, as quellingly as he can.  Texas starts to laugh, and then catches something in Mike’s expression and stops, scowling.

“…What happened.”

“Nothing happened,” says Mike.  “Just don’t, okay?”

“Tiny…”

“He’s not gonna stop until you tell us,” Dutch says, with just a hint of a laugh in his voice.  Mike frowns at him, and Dutch winces apologetically but doesn’t quite stop smiling.  “Everybody knows you’re into him, dude, it’s not like it’s a secret.”

“Yeah ‘cause Texas is totally good at pretending like stuff is secret when it’s supposed to be secret,” Texas says.  “But you wantin’ to go to town on this dude’s royal—”

“ _All we’re sayin’_ is it’s easier to figure stuff out with three heads than one,” says Dutch.  Glances at Texas and winks at Mike.  “…Two heads.  Whatever.”

“Don’t get all modest, Dutch, your head’s okay,” Texas says.  “Now, Mike, give Texas the _deets._   Sha.”

Mike opens his mouth, shuts it again, opens it again.  Clears his throat awkwardly.

“…I’m…worried about the king,” he manages finally.

“Figured,” says Texas.

“I don’t know why he keeps the Duke around.”

“Yeah, you said.”

“He keeps on…yelling at him, making him feel bad, acting like Chuck doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

“And then he just pretends like he never yelled, like everything’s great, and Chuck just…I dunno, he acts like it makes it okay he was a jerk, that he’s being nice now.”  

“Emotable abuse,” says Texas.

Mike blinks, taken aback.  Glances at Dutch, who looks just as confused as he does.  Texas nods authoritatively. 

“My dad told me a bunch of stuff to watch out for when he gave me the Man’s Talk,” he says.  “Like what's bad news, what you gotta look out for.  Mom helped, she's good at teachin' stuff.  It's her job."  

"I--yeah, I know."  Texas is pretty proud of his mom; there aren't a lot of people these days who know enough to be professors at University city.  "What did she say?"

"She said a ton of stuff," Texas says, and scratches the back of his neck.  "Uh...I got it better when dad told me what she meant though.  It was somethin’ like...if somebody's gotta apologize and say 'I'm never gonna do that again' about the same thing, like, three times, they probably aren't gonna stop, ever.  They're just tryin' to keep you there, so they can do it more.  That's what makes it so bad, 'cause you  _wanna_ believe they're good, but they just wanna keep you there and mess with you.  Somethin' like that."

"That...sounds right."  Mike frowns.  "What'd you say it's called?  I...immutable..?"

“He said ‘emotable’,” says Dutch.  “I never heard of that, you sure you didn’t make it up?  We got…partnership classes in Deluxe, they said ‘abuse’ was when you catch one of your parents hittin’ the other one.”  He grimaces.  “…people used to get whipped for doin’ stuff like that.  Automatic divorce.  Then the palace sets you up with somebody else.  It’s, like, the only thing Kane kinda got right.”

“Okay well that’s weird too, but yeah it’s totally a real thing!” says Texas.  “Doesn’t matter what it’s called, though.  Texas calls it bein' a  _jerk_."

“That’s something…y’know, husbands and wives do to you, though,” says Mike, frustrated.  “And that’s…” he shudders a little bit at the thought.  “They’re not—agh, no.”

Texas shrugs.  “Seemed like we were doin’ okay before all this crap happened,” he says.  “Texas totally wowed the king with his sick stunts and his cool battle wound, and Mike cuddled him and Dutch made him chocolate, and Julie did that thing where she makes out with you but with her eyeballs—pretty sure he’s pickin’ up what we’re puttin’ down.”

“You think—Julie’s into him?” That’s a new thought, and Mike’s not entirely sure how it makes him feel—good, mostly.  Weird, kinda.

“You think she ain’t?”  Texas shrugs.  “Whatever.  All I’m sayin’ is, if we show him off how cool we are and how much fun we have and how we think _he’s_ cool and kinda fun, he’ll figure out he likes us better than that dumb jerk.  And then he’ll kiss—somebody, y’know, whoever.  Whoever he’s into!” 

“We’ve gotta be cool about it, though!” Mike says quickly, and winces at the memory of Chuck’s trembling legs, the smell of his fear, the tremor in his voice.  “Every—every time the Duke sees us getting’ friendly with him, Chuck pays for it.  He…” _he’ll hate me,_ he can’t say.  Dutch seems to pick up on it, though, because he grimaces sympathetically and pats Mike’s shoulder. 

“We’ll be cool,” he says, reassuring.

“Totally cool,” says Texas, grinning.  “Don’t worry, Mike…nobody’s better at sneaking than _Texas.  KACHAW!!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"dracus animum draci non corripit"_  
>  \- "A dragon does not take the soul of another dragon". Found in the Raymanthian royal dungeon, scored into the wall through unknown means


	8. Treasured Gifts, Blackened Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Duke of Detroit's Five Rules For Rulers:  
> \- Don't fall for anything twice.  
> \- Effect over aesthetic (aesthetic over everything else).  
> \- Ethics are a luxury; survival isn't.  
> \- Everybody wants something.  
> \- Put your enemies on the ground, and make sure they stay there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _Cut this scene? The young/hoardless/vulnerable partner giving away everything they have left to court their flight was romantic in the 1800s, but it's a bit of a cliche for your modern setting. We already know Su-Min is willing to leave New York for her flight--explore that as a show of devotion instead?_ "  
> \-- Editor's note on the first draft of "The Fire Inside", later to become the 2011-2024 bestselling romance novel written by and for dragons.

“What do you mean, you were  _under his desk_?”

Julie came back a little bit after noon, the day after Mike’s weird passing-out attack and drawing session with Dutch.  She looks windblown and tired, but better than Mike was worried she would. 

Right now, she looks like she can’t decide whether to laugh or hit Mike on the back of the head for being a moron.  Mike offers an apologetic smile.  “I was hiding?” he says.

“Hiding under his desk.”

“You didn’t tell us this part!” says Texas.  He already caught Julie up on the “emotable abuse” apparently happening in the palace—Mike is kind of relieved that Julie looked just as confused as Mike felt.  Now Texas is sitting back and listening to Mike’s retelling of what happened the day before.  “You just said you  _heard._   Texas figured you were up on the ceiling or somethin’!”

“How would I get up on the ceiling?” Mike says, baffled.  Texas glances at Dutch, back at Mike, and then shrugs.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“ _Mike!_ ” Julie snaps her fingers in front of his face.  “Mike,  _focus._   What were you doing under his desk?”

“Hiding,” Mike repeats.

“Nothing else?”

Mike frowns, confused.  “…Like…what?  There’s not a lot you can do under a desk, Jules.”

Julie drags both hands down her face.  “Oh my god,” she says, to nobody in particular.  “It’s like talking to a rock.”

“Hey,” Mike protests, not too aggressively.  She’s not wrong, he’s pretty dumb sometimes. 

“Bet his kingliness’s been thinkin’ about  _that_  all night,” Texas chortles to himself, and takes another bite of whatever nameless jerky he’s stolen from the kitchens this time.  He still looks kind of pale, kind of weak, pretty dang tired, and he winces when he moves.  He insists there’s nothing wrong, though, and everybody’s kinda avoiding pointing it out.  Which is probably why Texas seems to be in such a good mood.  “Bet he thought real _hard_ about that one.”

“ _Texas_ ,” says Dutch.

“What?  Everybody was thinkin’ it.”

“Thinking what?” Mike says, and then catches the faint flush on Dutch’s dark cheeks and finally puts two and two together.  “ _Oh_.  I, uh.  I—uh.  Uh.”

“See?” says Dutch accusingly to Texas, while Mike stares into the distance and tries to handle the sudden rush of mental images his brain is hitting him with.  “You broke Mike!”

“I’m not,” Mike protests vaguely.  “Uh…mm.”  And then, kind of guilty but totally helpless to stop himself, “…you think he…thought about that?”

“Literally anybody else who heard ‘I was under his desk’ would think that,” Julie says, and she sounds stern, but she’s smiling as she shakes her head.  “…Except you.  You’re something special, cowboy.”

“Th…thanks?”  He’s not sure that one’s a compliment.  But the others are smiling, so honestly…Mike’s pretty happy either way.  He grins around at them all, happy to have them back, just happy to have them all happy again.  “We should go out for a ride or something.”

“We should,” Julie agrees.  Hesitates, just for a split second, so brief Mike might be imagining it.  “I think we might be feeling a little bit jealous now we know you’ve been hiding under somebody else’s desk.  We might need you to spend some quality time with us.  We never date anymore.”

Mike’s stomach gives a harsh little lurch.  “Ha,” he says, kind of brief and sickly, and Julie’s teasing smile drops.  “I, ha, come on, Jules.”  God, he knows she’s not trying to be cruel on purpose, but—god.

“…Sorry,” says Julie, and now  _she_ looks upset, and that’s bad.  “I mean, it…Mike, look.  I-I know it’s not what we…”

“So, we should go out on that ride!” Texas interrupts, really really loudly.  “Texas is tired of people talkin’ about stuff!  And— _and,_ I’m totally heroically injured.  So there.”

“Texas,” Julie says, kind of low like she wants to say more than she’s saying, but Texas gets up, holding onto his side, and grabs Mike’s arm.  “Texas, I think we need to—”

“Lame girly talking stuff got it let’s go!” Texas says, and starts walking, tugging Mike along behind him.  Mike hears Julie make a frustrated noise, but a minute later she and Dutch are catching up to Mike and Texas, falling in on either side of him. "Wonder if the king kept that big pig thing around," Texas is saying.  "Bet I could fight it again.  Bet I could kick its butt."

"...The king," Mike repeats.  Grins, startled and struck as the idea hits him.  "I should invite him!"  He can see the look his Burners give each other, but he resolutely refuses to acknowledge it.  “Meet us out front, okay?!”

“Mike…”

“Just a sec!”

Court was just ending when Mike came out into the courtyard, and he's just in time as he runs back in to catch a flash of emerald-green cloak as Chuck leaves the throne room.  Mike breaks into a jog and ducks through the door behind him, and this time when he gets close he can see the rune circle scarred on the back of Chuck's neck.  As soon as Mike gets almost within arm's reach, a spark of pale blue light flares up in the scars, and Chuck twitches and turns sharply.  When he sees Mike, his eyes go wide. 

“Hey, buddy,” Mike says, and Chuck glances to the right and then to the left and then ducks forward and pushes Mike through the nearest door, closing it behind them.  He smells kinda different today, some kind of different scent.  Mike has to resist the urge to lean in and take a deep breath, try to figure out what it is.

Chuck glances back at the door and then to Mike, and makes such a ludicrous grimacing expression Mike has to laugh.  Chuck doesn't look happy, though, so he forces himself to stop pretty quickly.

"...Hi," he says again."

“You’re gonna get us both in trouble,” Chuck hisses.  “Seriously, Mike?!”

Mike can still remember what the king’s voice sounded like when he came to rescue them, the way he’d touched Mike’s skin really carefully.  He'd called him “Mikey”, talked to him so gently.  It’s good to be close again.  They should be close.  It’s really good.

“I missed you, dude,” he says, and Chuck breathes out long and slow, reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose like Mike is giving him a headache.

“I…missed you too,” he says, like he’s admitting an awful secret.  “Mike—look, I know you…want stuff.  You’re, um…because of—the way you are, and, and the way I am, and the way we…I mean, there’s just a lot of stuff going on, with…you.  And me.”

Mike’s basically got no idea what he just said, but okay.  “Sure,” he says patiently.

“So, um—but.”  Chuck is waving a hand abstractedly in the air, voice going higher-pitched the longer Mike just watches him and smiles.  “Anyway!  Like I’ve said, uh, before…even if I wanted to, and—and I do, I mean, you’re very…” he swallows.  “You gotta stop making me…”

He trails off on that, and Mike’s stomach gives a hungry, dizzy kind of swoop.  “…yeah?” he says, and his voice comes out kind of hoarse, kind of hot and low and ashy in his throat.  Chuck licks his lips, and oh man, that’s….hm.

“Stop that,” he says weakly.  “ _That,_ stop doing that.  Kind of thing.  You’re making it harder for both of us.  Okay?”

Every part of Mike wants him to keep pushing, hungry, warm, wanting.  _What kind of thing?_ And a step closer, up into Chuck’s space.  Chuck’s already flushed and flustered, close enough to smell—if Mike kept teasing, Chuck would probably give in, would maybe let Mike touch him some more…

“…Sorry,” says Mike, and straightens his back, closes his eyes and forces himself back under control.  “Yeah, of course.  Sorry.”

Chuck slumps, breathes out like he was…scared, almost.  “Thanks,” he says.  I just…don’t want this to be any harder than it needs to be.”

He looks so tired, all of a sudden.  Mike wants to reach out and pull him down and in, cradle Chuck’s head in his shoulder and curl up around him.  Instead he smiles, tries to make it…friendly.  Normal, a normal, _friendly_ smile. 

“You should go out with us,” he says.  “Just so you can chill out for a while, y’know?  Do what _you_ wanna do.  I swear I’m not gonna make it weird.”

Chuck sighs.  “…I’m the  _king_ ,” he says, exhausted.  “I do what I want all the time.”

“What?”  Mike snorts and slaps him on the back.  Like a pal.  “Come on.  I’ve seen what you do, it’s all signing papers and worrying about stuff and letting people yell at you about stuff.  You’re telling me you  _enjoy_  that?  Chuckles, please.”

Lord Vanquisher frowns, flushing a little bit like he always does at the nickname.  He doesn’t glare this time, though.  “…that’s different.”

“Yeah, but.  You start working before dawn, and you don’t stop until the sun goes down.”  Mike pauses, then guesses, “…and you stay up even later than that locked up in your room, working on projects.  Right?”

Chuck chews his lip and fidgets—Mike groans.  “Come on!  You don’t  _enjoy_  being king.  You just said you don’t get to do the stuff you like doing, you don’t get the stuff you want—you can at least get a little bit of time off!”

“Somebody will see me!”

“You have  _magic_!”  Mike laughs.  “You walked right out the front door of your own castle on the fourth, and nobody even looked at you twice!”

“But…”  Chuck’s eyes glance off to one side, his whole body kind of shrinks in on him.  It’s amazing how quickly he can change, once he doesn’t have to be Lord Vanquisher anymore—he’s just a scared young man with scars on his face and deep, dark shadows under his eyes.  "If...if the Duke—"

"He won't find out," Mike promises. 

"There are people out to get me,” Chuck mumbles.  “When I go out.  It’s…stupid, taking a risk like that.”

“We’ll protect you.” Mike smiles hopefully.  "I mean, nobody attacked you when we went out on the fourth, right?  We did okay that time."

"Y...yeah, but."

"You can tell the Duke we kidnapped you," Mike says, half-joking, a little bit serious.  "He'd believe it."

"Ha!" Chuck chews on his lip for another second, then sighs and shakes his head.  "...Okay.  Okay!  Fine."

—

The Burners only have to wait by the gates for ten minutes before Chuck comes hurrying up, glamoured again and wearing a battered-looking T-shirt under his green cloak.  He looks like somebody Mike might run into on the street, and it takes Mike a second to realize Chuck's got his crown off and his hair loose.  With his hood up, his hair covers his eyes and changes the shape of his face, makes him almost unrecognizable.  Julie squints at him for a second when he walks up, then brightens and dips an elegant little bow.  "...Sire," she says, just loud enough to hear.  "I almost didn't recognize you.  But...mm.  May I?"

"Uh..." Chuck brushes his hair back with one hand for a second to look her over, uncertain, then nods.  "S-sure?"

"I've made...kind of a career out of not being noticed, and noticing other people,” says Julie gently, and reaches out, giving him plenty of time to pull away.  Slides his hood down.  “Hood up in the middle of the day?  People are going to look at you just because it makes you look like you don't want to be looked at.  Even if they don't recognize you, they'll remember seeing you."

The king huddles in on himself like a plant withering in the sun and runs his fingers nervously through his hair.  "I just...don't like..."

"I know it feels more exposed, but actually it's better," says Julie.  "Trust me."

“Even if they know, so what?!”  Texas says firmly.  “You gotta stop  _hiding_ , little man!”

Chuck, who is a solid hand’s width taller than Texas even when he hunches his shoulders, mouths  _“little man…?”_  to himself in disbelief as Texas goes bounding away toward the gates.  Mike jostles Chuck with a shoulder, laughing, and throws a companionable arm around him to pull him out into bright sunshine.

“They’re not gonna know,” Dutch says reassuringly.  “That’s a good spell.  Almost as good as Julie’s, and she specializes.”

"Do you have an amulet, or do you make the circle yourself?"  Julie squints again, eyes flashing.  "...it's very solid.  You drew the form, right?"

"Y-yeah!"  Chuck blinks, a flicker behind his hair.  It's weird to see him without his bangs pulled back by the crown and a ponytail.  His normally-expressive face is half-hidden, hard to read.  "It's...I've figured out it works best on skin, um, where the circle doesn't show."

"Huh."  Julie steps up next to him, and Chuck holds out an arm with almost knee-jerk immediacy; Julie threads an arm through his and they follow Texas out into the street.  Chuck gets more animated as the conversation strays farther into magical theory; Mike trails along behind them and watches, trying to see whatever Texas was talking about.  Julie...does seem to really like talking to Chuck.  Which, they're both really smart, and really cool, so...

Mike thinks about Chuck and Julie going out with each other, getting comfortable on the couch together,  _kissing_ —and it's good, and it feels right, but he can't stop imagining himself into the scene too.  It doesn't feel quite right unless he gets to be there too, he just really, really  _wants—_

"Are you coming, Mike?" 

Mike blinks awake and sees Dutch lingering behind for him, Texas practically out of sight, Chuck and Julie strolling along still chatting.  He smiles reassuringly and speeds up, catching up with the others.  "Sorry," he says, and gets an arm around Dutch's shoulders, an arm around Chuck's.  "Where are we goin'?"

"I was gonna go to the museum," Dutch says.  "I've been taking pictures, looking at old machines."

"Texas wants victory food!" says Texas.  "Yeah!"

"I think I'll go looking for some spell ingredients I've been thinking about buying," says Julie brightly, and unwinds her arm from Chuck's.  "Why don't you two go and hunt down some dinner, and you can let us know where to meet up?"

"We'll let you guys get on with it," says Dutch, grinning, and before Chuck can open his mouth the others are dispersing out into the crowd.  

Mike starts "—hey, we're not—" then stops, sighing, when it becomes immediately obvious nobody's listening.  "...Sorry," he says, and really, really means it.  "This isn't what I was goin' for, dude.  It thought we were all gonna just..."

"It's fine," says Chuck, but he's kind of determinedly not looking at Mike, and it feels...not good.  Mike shrinks, just a little bit.  "No, Mike, it's fine, okay?  Seriously."

It feels kind of like it's not fine, but Chuck doesn't seem to want to talk about it, and Mike doesn't know what to say.  Fortunately, a second later, he's saved from having to figure it out by the sound of a familiar voice.

“Sir Smiling Dragon!” 

“ _Shit,_ ” hisses Chuck, and plants his feet abruptly.  Mike stops, startled by his sudden immovability, and stares around for the source of the yell to see— “That’s Sir Ericsson!  He’s  going to know it’s me—”

“You’re  _glamored_ ,” Mike whispers back, “—dude, you’re  _allowed to go out!_ ”  And then, before Chuck can answer that, he raises an arm and waves.  “Dude—hey!  Thurman, hey!”

 “Mike!”  Thurman grins, straightens his glasses.  “Uh, sorry.   _Sir Chilton._   Nice to see you out.” 

He glances at Chuck, and for just a second his brows furrow, startled and confused.  Chuck shrinks, but then Thurman looks back to Mike and smiles kind of uncertainly.  “Uh…I don’t think I’m…familiar?”

“Thurman, this is Chuck.” Mike pushes him forward a little.  “He’s a friend!”  Chuck crumples in on himself a little, ears red.  “—I think you guys could talk about a bunch, he’s not gonna brag but he’s pretty dang good at magic.” He whaps Chuck on the back of the head—Chuck squawks, stuck between flattery and embarrassment.  The longer Thurman looks at him without recognizing him, the more his shoulders relax.

“You’re a mage?”  Thurman sounds excited.  “What field?”

“Uh…”  Chuck still seems to be paralyzed.  “Arcana Majora, abjuratives, evocations…pre-form, mostly."  He raises an arm self-consciously, flashes his scarred forearms.  "And I’m working on free-form.  And I…uh.  The bellicose arts.  Y’know.  War magic.”  He shifts his weight uneasily, and Mike can tell by the look on his face he’s already regretting saying that last part. “But, I mean, I don’t like—they’re not my—”

“…You fought during the revolution, didn’t you?”

Chuck stops, stiffening up, still all over.  Then, very slowly, he nods.  Thurman nods too.  For a second, his eyes look really, really tired. 

“Glad we had you with us out there,” he says.  “You seem like a good guy.”

“O-oh.”  Chuck’s shoulders slump, tension draining out of him.  “Yeah.  Uh—yeah.  You too.”

“Evocations, though!” Thurman says, and grins a bucktoothed grin.  “That’s pretty intense stuff.  Lord Vanquisher does evocation magic.”

“Yyyes,” says Chuck.

“I mean, he’s on a whole other level, though,” says Thurman, apparently not noticing the way Chuck’s eyes just went round. “Did you see the _lightning bolt_ he hit those Bardonian guys with?  The guy’s a _beast._ Making lightning out of nothing takes a _crazy_ amount of power!”  He snaps his fingers, flashes a brief spark off his fingertips.

“It didn’t look like he made it out of nothing,” Chuck says, all in one breath like the words are pulled out of him.  Winces at the sound of his own voice and then rushes on, like he can’t help himself.  “It just—I thought, it looked like maybe, he just…used some wind magic to prime a natural thunderstorm and then…guided a bolt.  Created a leader for it.”

“That’s not…” Thurman starts, and then stops, frowning.  “…huh.    _Huh._ ”

“That’s what I would do,” Chuck says.  “If I had a little bit of time, and I needed to strike a bunch of people with lightning.”

“That’s  _brilliant,_ ” Thurman says slowly, and this time when he looks at Chuck there’s a faint gleam of light dancing across his glasses, his eyes are narrow behind the thick lenses.  A sight spell.  _Shit._ “Do I…know you?”

“Well, we gotta go,” says Mike quickly, and grabs Chuck’s arm, tugging him away.  Chuck goes willingly, stumbling a little and then hurrying along after him.  "Nice seeing you, Thurman!"

"Uh—yes!  Nice to meet you?"  Thurman stares, calls after them, "—I'd love to talk again!  I'm at the palace!"

They get a couple of streets away before Chuck starts to relax.  He glances back, swings off to one side into a side-street and slumps.  He’s _giggling,_ kind of breathless, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.  "Oh my god!" he says.  "Holy crap!  He said—he called me—oh my god."

"Ruby and Thurman would totally be friends with you," Mike suggests, kind of hopeful.  The idea of Chuck getting to stop sometimes and talk about magic and strategy and stuff with people is a really good one.  “They think you’re really cool.”

“Oh, I mean…” the king starts, half-smiling—trails off, eyes skating off and down to one side like he’s thinking of something else.  His smile falters.  “…I mean, ‘ _friends_ ’ is, uh.  I can’t really be…”

“You’re friends with me,” Mike points out.  “And the other Burners, you can totally be friends with people!  Come on, sire, what are you so scared of?”

Chuck is hesitating, indecision and confusion twisting his face, when Mike’s eyes slide past him and see…a guy.  Standing in the mouth of the side-street they’re in.  He’s got a red jacket on, with the hood pulled down low over his face.  He’s staring at Chuck, standing still as people walk past behind him—

Chuck seems to feel the guy lunging for his back at the same second Mike opens his mouth to yell.  He starts to turn, hands rising—too late.  The man wraps an arm around his throat, yanking him back off balance.  Chuck thrashes, claws at his arm and tries to twist out of his grip, but the guy is reaching down like he's going for a knife and Mike can't get back to him, Chuck is in the way, he can't—

Chuck opens his mouth and breathes a jet of red-gold, billowing fire.  The assassin yells in pain and lets go—the air smells like charred cloth and cooking meat.  Mike backpedals in shock as Chuck whips around, gasping for ragged breaths, pure magic seeping out of his scars like steam.  He's shaking all over.

"Sire!" Mike starts.  Chuck isn't listening--he brings a long arm around and under with a trembling yell--fury or fear, Mike can't tell.  The assassin doubles over around his fist, and Chuck whips around, one of those snake-fast moves he learned from the Duke, and lands a savage elbow on the back of the guy's head.  "Chuck--"

" _Fuck_ you!" the king snarls, high and strangled, and brings both fists down on the assassin's back.  There's a flash of blue-white magic, a shockwave BOOM that blows Mike back a step and sets his ears ringing.  The assassin hits the ground hard--tries to scramble away, reaching for his knife again.  Chuck doesn't give him the chance.  He's already diving forward, arms lit up with war-runes, breathing fast and hard and awful with a choked whimper on every exhale.  " _One_ day!" he says, and kicks the knife away.  "Just!  A  _week_ , without you--without  _somebody_ trying to-- _hh_ \--NO!"  The man tries to make a desperate grab for him--Chuck twists away, throws a bolt of fire that scorches the ground an inch from the man's face.  

"Your majesty,  _stop!_ "

"Why can't all of you just  _leave me alone?!_ "

"Listen to me!"

"You can't--" Chuck wheezes, like something is still choking him, like he can't catch his breath.  He kicks the man in the gut with an awful, solid _thud._ Kicks down at him again, again,  _again,_ aiming for his gut, his ribs, his face.   "I'm not gonna let you--"

"Chuck!"  Mike grabs his arm.  Lord Vanquisher whips around to him, eyes wide and wild, teeth bared.  His cheeks are wet and white as milk, there's smoke on his breath and magic sparking around his eyes.  "He's down!  He's done, we can take him to the palace—"

"Let go!" Chuck says, half-frenzied.  There's something crumpled and awful about his expression, his wild eyes--like he's as likely to burst into tears as turn around and wipe the guy off the face of the earth.  "Get off!  He'll get back up if I don't—" 

"Buddy!  Hey.  Hey, hey, look at me."  Mike grabs Chuck's arms, holds on as he tries to turn around.  He keeps an eye on the would-be assassin, but the man just lies there, wheezing, curled around his burned arm.  His head is bleeding where he hit the ground.  "Just tie him up.  There's two of us here, we can handle him.  You don't have to hurt him once he's down.  That's not you, dude."

Chuck gasps, shoulders heaving; there's a strange kind of sick incomprehension in the way he's staring at Mike, like Mike's not speaking English.  Like what he's saying doesn't make sense.  But he's _listening,_ not struggling anymore, and the spitting sparks of magic around his eyes and hands is starting to fade.  Mike goes on, encouraged.

"You're not the kinda guy who hurts people," he says, coaxing, and feels the king shudder.  "I know you...gotta, sometimes, and you have, sometimes.  But you're not like that."

"You don't know me," Lord Vanquisher snaps, and tugs at his arm like Mike offended him.  When he draws himself up to his full height and raises his chin, there's something...familiar, about the way he looks down on Mike.  All he needs is a pair of red sunglasses, a cane to lash out with.  "You don't know that.  I can take care of myself!"

"I know!  I know you can!"  Mike lets go and Chuck pulls his arm away, lips thin and face still very, very pale.  "...Dude, please.  Listen.  I know you're—it, uh.  Freaks you out, when somebody goes after you like that.  It's scary stuff.  But you don't have to let it make you...cruel."

Chuck opens his mouth to answer, and then...stops.  Swallows.  Takes a deep breath and lets it out.  The cold, learned haughtiness fades out of him, leaves him thin and small and slumped. "I'm not," he says.  His voice sounds choked and faint.  "I didn't—I don't want..."

"—You breathed  _fire,"_ Mike says.  

The king stares at him.  Mike stares back.  He was so concerned with stopping Chuck from laying into that guy after he was down, he almost didn't think about it.  It all happened so fast, but—but that was  _fire,_ Mike didn't imagine it.  The assassin's arm is still burned and smoking.  Mike's heart is suddenly pounding so hard it hurts.  

“It’s a—learned it during the war,” Chuck says.  In the wake of the fury, his shaking has gotten worse.  His hands are trembling, knotted up in handfuls of his cloak, his eyes are wet again.  It almost looks like an adrenaline rush, except adrenaline is great and Chuck just looks terrible. All pale and sick.  "The Duke gave—I shouldn't have come out here.  God!  I knew this would happen, I _knew_ —"

"I didn't see a scar light up," says Mike, and it comes out a lot more accusatory than he means it to.  Chuck doesn't even seem to hear him.  

"I've gotta get back to the castle," he says. "I've gotta go."  He turns back to the assassin, hesitates and then grabs both of the man's arms.  When he lets go, there are thick, dully-gleaming cords wrapped around both wrists.  "Take him."

"Chuck—"

" _Take him to the palace,_ " Chuck snaps, sharp as a knife, and Mike flinches, startled.  " _Now!_ "

"Yes, sire," Mike says immediately.  "I'm sorry, I—"

Chuck isn't listening.  He pulls his hood up, whispers a few quiet, desperate words; his cloak ripples and then he's invisible, barely a shimmer in the air.

"Wait!" Mike calls after him, desperate, "—Please, can I just—"

He's gone.  Mike stares after him for a second, and then growls and drags his hands through his hair, frustrated and furious. 

“…H-hey,” says the would-be assassin, thick and wet through a mouthful of blood.  He raises his tied hands as Mike glances over at him, teeth bared.  “Hey, look, please—”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Mike says coldly.  “He told me to take you to the palace, that’s what I’m gonna do.  But if you _ever_ try to hurt him again…” he leans in close, fangs lengthening, pupils thinning to slits, and _snarls._ The man cringes back, eyes going wide.

"Got it!  I won’t, I’ve got it!  It was just a job, I’m sorry, please—" 

"Good."  Mike grabs the back of his shirt, yanks him up.  "Walk."

—

Mike’s kind of hoping to catch up with Chuck by the time he gets back to the palace, but if he passes the king at some point during the walk back, he doesn’t see him.  Instead, almost the instant he comes through the gate, he sees the _last_ person he wanted to see—strolling jauntily down the courtyard toward Mike, spinning his cane and grinning. 

“Oh _my,_ ” drawls the Duke, as soon as Mike is within hearing range.  “My my my _my_ , what has the drake dragged in?”

Mike opens his mouth and then…pauses, for just a second.  “…A hitman,” he says.  “He was trying to get to the palace, to…hurt the king.”

“Oh, really?” The Duke cocks a brow, and Mike knows he knows—but dammit, Mike’s not going to be the one who gets Chuck yelled at, who gives the Duke a _reasonable doubt_ to interrogate him over.  “And he just happened to run into you?”

“He made his intentions pretty clear, _your grace,_ ” says Mike.

The Duke holds his eyes for a long second over the tops of his opaque red glasses, then scoffs and turns away.  “I see,” he says.  “Alright, come along, you.  Can’t have you running around, putting our beloved Lord Vanquisher in danger, now can we?”

He twists a hand, and his own dark cords twine out of nowhere, wrapping suddenly around the man’s throat.  Mike tenses up, but the prisoner…doesn’t.  He slumps, all the tension going out of him.

“I’ll take this from here,” says the Duke, and tosses the rope over his shoulder.  His lady-at-arms steps out of the shadows and catches it out of the air and the assassin follows her, silent and docile, eyes blank.  “Dismissed, Mr. Chilton.” 

Mike watches them go, and he can almost feel the last traces of adrenaline drain out of him.  He slumps over against the wall, cool against his back, and presses his hands over his eyes.  Sees Chuck again in his mind's eye, frenzied, snarling, kicking over and over and over again.  Breathing  _fire._   

...It should be freaking him out, and—and it is, Mike's heart is doing awful, weird flip-flops in his chest.  But at the same time he can't stop thinking about it.  It’s so dumb, it’s  _so_ stupid, but…he could kiss his king and feel fire against his lips, press up against him and…

Mike groans, drags his hands through his hair and then turns his back on the castle and heads straight back out toward the gates.  He needs to tell the other Burners what happened, he needs to cancel their plans, he needs to get out of here, needs to ride and probably never stop.  Dammit.

_Dammit._

—

For a solid week, things stay quiet.  The Burners haven’t had so much free time since…well, ever, honestly.  Dutch gets together a collection of paints and starts painting for fun again, big sweeping murals of surreal figures with too many eyes.  Julie reads and writes and goes out on long rides through the city.  Texas finds a collection of ancient comic books in the back of the king’s museum and starts reading through them with almost alarming intensity, occasionally rushing over at random times of the day to show Mike an explosion or a really cool one-liner Mike has no context for.

It’s…great, that there’s nothing happening.  It seriously is.  So it doesn’t make any sense, the way Mike spends all day walking the castle and the city streets, more jittery with every passing hour. 

Some of his free time he spends prowling the castle, looking for the Duke’s mysterious hidden dungeon.  But there’s hundreds of rooms and tons and tons of floors, and Mike’s only got so much patience for wandering around the castle and exploring abandoned hotel rooms.  Every so often a random room or hallway will feel like dragon magic again, but the Duke never seems to be anywhere near and no matter how carefully Mike searches he never seems to find anything to be causing it.  It’s frustrating, and stupid, and it puts him even more on edge than he already was.

Besides, the more he walks around the more chance he has of running into Chuck, which is frustrating as heck.   It’s cool, it seriously is.  Chuck’s busy, and he’s trying to keep things professional.  Mike gets that, but Chuck never seems to have time for more than a couple seconds of guilty conversation before he smiles and waves Mike off, hurrying off on whatever business he’s working on.

It’s the end of the week, and Mike is just about ready to go try jumping off high stuff and trying to fly again, when something happens that kind of distracts him completely.  

He’s in the room, pacing in circles, occasionally throwing an idle punch or kick at empty air.  Texas is reading one of his new comic books aloud with all the sound effects, Mike is talking, and neither of them are really listening to each other.

“I just gotta get outta here.”  Punch, roundhouse kick.  Mike frowns, tries the kick again—dang, he’s out of shape.  “Go ride around the borders or something.”

“— _thought you could get on top of me, well you thought wrong!_  Boom!  Boom, boom, _snikt—_ ”

“There’s some kind of weird magic hanging around, too, can’t figure out where that’s coming from and it’s driving me nuts…”

“—the might of— _APOCALYPSE!_ Haha, hey Tiny, check this out!”

“Cool,” says Mike, without looking, and Texas chortles and goes back to reading.   Mike goes back to pacing.  “—And the Duke knows I know he wants me gone.  I think he—knows other stuff, too, he _definitely_ knows I…knows we’re into each other, me and Chuck, that’s the _problem_ —”

He pauses for a second, glances over at the couch—Texas is happily imitating the sound of some kind of psychic power beam and doesn’t appear to be listening.

“…You guys have a better chance of spending time around him than I do,” he says, quieter, and grits his teeth, punches the air and imagines it’s the Duke’s stupid face.  “—messed— _that_ —up…”

“Nah,” says Texas, and flips a page.  “No such thing as messin’ up.  Somebody told me that one time.”

Mike pulls the punch he was about to throw so hard he almost stumbles over his own feet.  “—What?”

“Somebody who told me my fortune or somethin’,” Texas says.  “Wasn’t listenin’ too good, but hey, Texas makes his _own_ future!  Kachaw.”

“I thought you were—” 

“I listen to _you_ ,” Texas snorts.  “Don’t worry, little man, Texas’s heart is a muscle and Texas’s muscles are plenty strong enough to handle any emotions and junk you wanna put in ‘em.”  He flips another page.  “What happened to you just hittin’ on the king and makin’ him go all girly and blushy at you?  That seemed to be workin’  okay.”

"He’s not—”  Mike starts, and then groans and moves on.  “He doesn’t want me to hit on him, so I'm not gonna.  So...y'know, can you not…just—don’t.  Please, Tex."

"Why's he not want you to?" says Texas, frowning.

"He just—doesn't.  I dunno."  He does know.  Mike swallows hard.  "He thinks he can't.  So he doesn't want me to, uh..."

"What, so he's not gonna smooch you, even though you both wanna?"  Texas growls and closes his comic book, swinging his legs off the couch to glare directly at Mike.  Mike stops pacing, pinned in place by the force of the stare.  "That's  _dumb_.  Listen, Tiny, life's too short for lyin' and not—and— ”  Just for a second he hesitates, and then he squares his shoulders and folds his arms.  “Look, if he's not gonna kiss you, I totally will."

Mike opens his mouth to answer that, and then just goes “Uh—I, uh—haha—”

“What’s funny?” says Texas, and he’s…not laughing.  Just looking at Mike really solemnly, eyes dark and focused, arms crossed over his chest. 

“You, uh.”  Mike tries to breathe, can’t seem to catch his breath.  “Are you serious?”

“Texas is always serious.”

There are fireworks going off somewhere in Mike’s chest—or possibly that’s just his heart pounding against the inside of his ribs like it wants to break out of him.  “Oh,” he says again, and feels a huge, stupid grin start to spread over his face, disbelieving and so wide it hurts.  “Holy crap, Texas—”  He starts forward, reaching out—and then stops as Texas holds up a hand. 

“No,” says Texas.  “No, uh-uh.  You can’t decide yet.”

Mike gapes for a second, startled, then manages,  “…Can’t…?”

“Texas did his thing!” Texas says, and gets up, stretches his arms high over his head and twists with a low _pop_ of vertebrae.  “Somebody else’s turn.”

“Somebody else—?”

“Bye, Tiny!” says Texas, and shoves his hands in his pockets, moving fast toward the door now.  It might be Mike’s imagination, but the back of his neck looks kind of flushed.  “Good talk!”

And then he’s gone.  Mike stares at the door, then back at the couch, back to the door, like he can magically make answers appear out of the air where Texas used to be.

That just happened. 

That just _happened,_ this isn’t a dream, Mike isn’t imagining it, that just happened!

Mike is bursting out of his skin all of a sudden, energy welling up inside him in a great, burning wave—he wants to spin in circles, cheer and yell, jump off a building, breathe fire!  He wants to call Texas and ask him to say it again, maybe a couple times, maybe over and over again, and he kind of just wants to fall over on the ground and laugh.  He could—he could call Texas again!   He’s got the comm line, but—but if he does, if he gets all clingy now—no. 

No, and Texas seemed to want space, so—so Mike should wait until he comes and talks to him first?  Mike should get him something!  A present or something!  To show him Mike likes him too, like, a  _lot,_ he could find him something just for him.   Mike can’t stop grinning, except when he can’t stop shaking, except when he can’t move or breathe or think.  Texas likes him.  Likes him like he wants to kiss him, likes him like Mike likes him!  Holy crap, he could get to—

—unless he ruins this, unless he messes up.  God, he’s gotta be so careful.  Especially since, well, it’s Texas. 

Mike tries to sit down, jumps back up immediately, paces in a couple of fast circles and lets out a breathless, incredulous laugh.  It’s not everything he ever could’ve wanted, but it’s more than he ever dared to hope for. 

What if Mike leaves Texas alone, and Texas changes his mind?

The thought is awful, a sudden cold jolt, and Mike groans and starts pacing again, trying to think. That's not going to happen, he can't let it.  He'll find Texas, tell him yes, let him know how long Mike has--how much he wants--and, and he should have something to give Texas, some kind of present!  But he doesn't  _have_ anything, nothing nice.  He's got the mirror Chuck gave him, but he can't give that away, that's so nice and so important and Chuck  _gave_ it to him.  Chuck can afford to give out nice stuff, he's got such a nice hoard, but Mike's been running for a long time, everything he's got looks cheap and dumb by comparison.  God, why does  _Chuck_  even like him--no, focus.  

Mike drops down and tears through his pack, digs down to the very bottom and pulls out a tiny, beat-up little leather bag.  He empties it out on the ground, and can't help smiling as something bone-deep in him goes warm and satisfied.  Carefully, he sorts through the handful of ancient coins, polished to a dull gleam.  Pieces of old, colored glass, a clear ball the size of a songbird's egg with a glittering swirl of color inside.  A couple of stones that glitter or shine or catch the light in his hands.  Carefully, he picks up every piece and arranges them, steady and focused, turning every one of them to the best angle, putting it in the best spot so it shines the brightest.  Then he sits back, and looks it over.

It's not a lot, but it's everything he has.  He doesn't know which of these things Texas would like--maybe he should just offer him the bag, he can figure out what he wants.  Yeah, that makes sense.

The only problem is, once he gets out into the castle, he doesn't even know where to go.  Texas didn't say where he was going, and it's been at least ten or fifteen minutes since he left.  Mike looks up and down the hallway--silent rooms, doors shut, ancient hotel rooms.  

Mike picks the first elevator he finds, presses the down button--

The door slides open, and Thurman is standing on the other side of it, holding a book and a bunch of papers under one arm and looking preoccupied.  He starts out of the elevator, looks up, sees Mike and yelps. 

 "Thurman!" says Mike.  "Have you seen Texas?!"

Thurman raises his eyebrows at him.  Mike clears his throat, lowers his voice.  "I'm just, uh, looking for him."

“I saw him a little bit ago, yeah,” Thurman says.  “That’s why I was coming to find you, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” Mike’s heart leaps in his chest.  “Wh-why?   Did he says somethin’, or—?”

“He said you wanted to know more about…emotional abuse?” Thurman says, and pulls the book he’s carrying out from under his arm—then a couple of pamphlets, delicate old paper in fragile plastic envelopes.  “He said you said it was important, so I hunted some stuff down for you.  He said you should read them fast, and..." his mouth twists diplomatically.  "...'figure out what's up with your sugar daddy'?”

“Uh...okay?”  Mike falters, startled and half-laughing, and then takes the book and the papers, turning them over carefully in his hands.  The book is a thin volume that’s missing its cover, but the title page is still legible.   _The Psychology Of Dysfunction_.  The pamphlets have pictures of women and kids looking upset, titles like  _Understanding Psychological Abuse_ or  _When Words Hurt._   “Th-thanks.  Did he say…anything else?”

 “Not really…?” Thurman pushes his thick glasses up his nose.  “He seemed really jazzed about something though.  Uh…why?”

“No reason,” says Mike, and he can’t help grinning, tucking the book under his arm.  “Ha!  No reason.  It’s fine, dude, thanks!”

The last thing he wants to do right now is sit down somewhere and read.  But Texas apparently wants him to read these books right now, and if Mike doesn't distract himself he's going to go running after Texas instead.  Mike hesitates, chewing on his lip, and then sighs and hitches the book up under his arm, heading for the elevators.

There’s a room downstairs in the royal museum that’s basically _just_ for reading.  Mike heads there, because he’s pretty sure Chuck’s library isn’t open—not even if Mike’s been there before, if Chuck’s taken him there personally and (sat so close to him, pressed up against his side) showed him around.  So he finds himself a spot in the room full of old artifacts instead, drops the book in his lap and the pamphlets on top of the book, and starts working.

He realizes about three pages into the book that resolve to figure this stuff out is not going to help him on this one.  Just trying to follow the neat, printed words on the yellowed pages is making him twitchy.  His eyes keep skipping lines, his brain tunes out halfway through sentences.  It’s like school in Deluxe all over again.  Mike closes the book with a sigh, and turns to the pamphlets instead.  One of them is about husbands and wives again, and it has phone numbers and things for shelters that don’t exist anymore, people to call who died hundreds of years ago.  But the _second_ one…

Mike’s grounding in marital necessities and empire-approved intimacy was the same as every other kid in the Deluxian Empire.  The basics of procreation, a reassurance that the empire would find the correct mate for every person approved to marry.  An encouragement to report unlawful unions, unhealthy marriages, or deviant behavior. 

Somebody in the palace got beaten and exiled to a border slum, when Mike was in training there—Mike had been fourteen, and the rumors had been everywhere.  She’d been caught tying her wife up and doing painful things to her, had brainwashed her into saying that she enjoyed them.  The women had been crying, had begged not to be separated.  The abused woman was in protective custody.  _That_ was abuse.  Teachers had been bringing up the scandal for years after that, every time the curriculum circled back around to Marital Necessities.

Nobody ever said a word about…  “ _Abusers may change abruptly from affectionate to aggressive”,_ about parents being harsh, demanding, isolating their kids, demanding to win every argument.  That wasn’t…a thing, not even something to comment on.

But the more he reads, the more it all seems to click together.  It feels right, it sounds _right._ Mike knew something was wrong, gut-deep.  He thinks about the Duke yelling and threatening and then turning around and coaxing, soothing, complimenting.  Mike could practically go down the list and check things off;  he traces a finger along one bullet point at a time, very gentle with the old paper.  _Yelling, screaming, belittling or humiliating.  Treating the victim as if they aren’t worth caring for or can’t be trusted to make decisions about their own well-being…_

“Mike, are you…reading?”

Mike jumps, stares around and then relaxes, grinning.  “Dutch!” he says.  “Yeah, uh…Thurman found me some books and stuff.”

“And you’re…readin’ them.”  Dutch raises an eyebrow at him.  “You know how to read?”

Mike laughs and kicks him in the shins.  Dutch grimaces dramatically and crumples down on the bench with him, looking over his shoulder.  When he sees what Mike's reading his smile falls, just a little.  “…Oh,” he says.  “Gotcha.”

“Yeah, I…I dunno.”  Mike shrugs, suddenly self-conscious—his finger trails slowly down the list, settles next to another bullet point.  _Controlling relationships or activities, monitoring all behaviors._ "...I feel like there’s somethin’ here, y’know?"

“Hey, I know,” Dutch says, and pats his shoulder.  “You never saw a problem you didn’t wanna fix, Mike, that’s just your style.”  He smiles, and Mike has to force himself not to stare for a second.  It’s—stupid, this is stupid, Texas said he’d be with Mike and Mike would _love_ that, and he doesn’t have any business—god, but Dutch has such a nice smile, though.  He’s so great.

“Mike?”

“Yyyeah.”  Mike shakes the thought away, drags his eyes back down to the paper.  He’ll just have to keep working on it.  He’ll…make it work.  “Sorry dude, what?”

“I said, I’ve been lookin’ for you all over,” says Dutch.  “I wanted to say somethin’.”

“Uh…” _Wanted to say something,_ that’s a weird way of putting it.  Mike folds the pamphlet up again, dutifully paying attention.  “Okay.  Shoot!”

“Right.”  Dutch takes a deep breath.  “Yeah, sure.  Alright.”

“You okay, man?” Mike says, half-laughing—he hasn’t seen Dutch look this nervous in months.  “What, did somebody ask you to do a speech or somethin’?  I can do it for you if you—”

“I like you a lot,” says Dutch.  Fast and steady, one word after the other, like he’s practiced it.  Mike stops, laughter faltering.  “As more than friends.  I've been keepin' it to myself, but...man, it's really gettin' me down.  I just had to..." he shrugs—Mike just stares at him, frozen in place.  Dutch looks back at him for a second, head tilted just a little bit on one side, then smiles a weird, crooked smile and pushes himself up.  

"...You don't hafta say anything," he says.  "It's cool.  I had to tell you, though.  Uh…has anybody else…?" he shakes his head.  “Never mind.  It’s cool!  It’s all good.  Bye!”

“Dutch—wait!”  Mike reaches out, snags his wrist.  Dutch turns back to him, and he looks really nervous, almost scared.  No, he can’t just run off thinking Mike doesn’t, that he wouldn’t—in a  _heartbeat,_ whenever he wanted.  Mike squeezes his wrist, lets his grip slide and grabs his hand instead, rubbing his thumb past Dutch’s knuckles. 

Dutch meets his eyes, glances down at their hands and swallows. 

“…Okay,” he says.  “ _Wow_.”  But then he’s squeezing Mike’s hand, untangling their fingers, stepping away.  “Good,” he says.  “Uh…talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” says Mike hoarsely.  “Yeah!  Totally.”

Dutch backs away, still smiling, turns his back and jogs out of the museum.  Mike stares after him for a long second, grinning like an idiot, and then sits back, smile falling a little.

So.  They...they both like him.

That's great, that's  _amazing,_ but it's also...a problem.  Mike's read a couple of books, he's seen plays based off ancient scripts, he's seen love triangles and messy relationships back when he lived in New Deluxe.  It's never been his problem before, but that's mostly because nobody has ever liked him like that.  But Dutch  _does._ Dutch likes Mike, and Texas likes Mike, and this is the kind of thing that rips friendships apart.  Especially if the person in the middle of it all doesn't...pick.  

Mike tries to go back to reading, but he can't focus on the words.   _Pick_.  Between Texas, Dutch, between his-- _how?_   

This should be easy.  If he was human, this would be easy.   _Dammit._ But Dutch is his  _friend,_ gentle and smiling and passionate and glowing and color all over his hands, dark, smiling eyes.  And--and Texas is...Texas is his friend too!  Solid and strong, crazy and wild, throwing himself into everything he does, wrestling Mike when he's getting jumpy, never trying to hide how he feels.  And Chuck--

Mike reaches up, grinds a knuckle into each temple.  He can't even let himself think about Ch--about  _Lord Vanquisher_ right now, god.  If he chooses one of the other two, he's going to have to give up on the king.  Not that Chuck is going to be with him anyway, but Mike would have to give up on even  _hoping_.  How is he supposed to  _pick_?  He can't even fall back on debts owed, he owes all three of them his life.  Maybe...Texas told him first, so maybe Mike should...

"Hey, Mike."

Mike jumps and looks up; Julie is smiling down at him, looking windblown and cheerful and amazing.  Some part of Mike (some hopeful, stupid part, some _terrified_ part) whispers  _is she going to...?_   

No.  No, don't be stupid, no.  

"Hey, Jules," he offers, and smiles a little bit shakily.  "What's up?"

"I've got a fun field trip for us!" Julie says brightly.  "You in?"

Mike huffs out a breath--kind of means it to be a laugh, but it doesn't really come out that way.  "Sorry," he says.  "I've got, uh...a lot of stuff to think about right now.  Not really feelin' it."

“Uh…huh.”  Julie considers him for a long second, eyes sharp on his face.  Then she purses her lips and shakes her head.  “...Well, that’s not gonna fly.  Come on, Cowboy, let’s go exploring.”

“Ex—exploring?”  Mike stumbles as Julie grabs his wrist and yanks, pulling him to his feet. “What?”

“Yeah, exploring!” Julie grins at him, the dangerous, mischievous grin he hasn’t seen in days, and tugs on his arm again.   “There's a door to the old treasure rooms downstairs, it's supposed to be  _full_ of old stuff.  I talked to the king, he says we have his blessing to go digging down there.  _And_ he says he’ll let us take most of what we find, and he’ll just put it on our tab.”

“Oh!”  Mike lets himself be pulled, interest immediately piqued—if not by the mention of artifacts up for the finding, then by the gleam in Julie’s eyes.  He needs to stay, he has to figure out who--but he doesn't want to be worried about this anymore, he's so  _tired_ of trying to choose.  “I mean—people have already cleaned the castle out though, right?”

“No,” says Julie, and her grin sharpens even more, brilliant and eager.  “My dad had all sorts of curses on his stuff, even the stuff he didn't care about enough to take with him when he left.  Nobody’s had sharp enough eyes to get through to the really good stuff.”  She flashes his sight at him, eyes going green and pupils thinning to slits.  “So.  You in?”

Mike has to laugh.  “Yeah!” he says.  “Yeah sure, okay!  Oh, but, uh..."  He turns back to the book and the pamphlets and does a double take.  "Where...?"  

"I put a cloaking spell on your stuff, nobody's going to steal..." Julie's eyebrows rise  almost imperceptibly behind her bangs.  "...your... _book_?  Cowboy, did you just try to blow me off so you could sit here and  _read?_ "  She blinks at him, eyes green and slit-pupilled, suspicious.  

"Thurman found it for me, okay?" Mike says, half-laughing.  "It's really me, Jules.  Hey, sometimes I read!  I’m a complicated guy!"

"Hmm."  Julie purses her lips.  "Tell me something only the real Mike would know then."

"Princess Julie Kane once saw my naked butt while we were all drunk and told me it was 'a solid six out of ten'."

Julie breaks down giggling.  "I said  _seven_ out of ten," she says.  "Impostor!"

"Yeah, you said 'seven, but really skinny'," says Mike, and Julie laughs even harder, and it's so incredibly good, seeing her laugh like that.  She doesn't laugh enough, and it's so great when she does.  "I’m rounding down.  Then you threw Texas's flask at me, and told me to do more squats."

"And I stand by that," says Julie, and steps in by his side.  Mike holds out an elbow, and Julie hooks her arm around it.  "Six-point-five out of ten's not bad.  Not with Texas on the team."

"We can't all be tens," Mike agrees, and stumbles just a little bit as the thought  _you could get to touch Texas's butt_ rises abruptly in his mind.  "Uh--so.  Uh, where are we goin' again?"

\--

The old treasure rooms are behind a huge, concrete door, on the basement level of the palace.  There are signs on the walls, old symbols and chipped notices that are barely legible anymore.  Somebody has carved wide, deep ventilation shafts in the walls, leading up the castle courtyard above, and sunlight spills down into the hallway in bright strips. 

It’s a good things the windows are there—there’s something about the solid, cold stone of the walls that makes Mike keenly, unhappily aware that they’re underground.  The hallway feels really cold and small, even with the vents. He wonders, suddenly, if Thurman has any books about that thing Chuck said.   _Claustra..._ something.

"The king says they think this place was a shelter during the Fall,"   Julie says, and Mike ignores the faintest trace of wistful, stupid jealousy at the thought of Julie and Chuck sitting together, talking about stuff.  "People built all sorts of shelters from the Sun-Killers, I guess."

"Did them a lot of good," Mike mumbles, and sizes up the door.  "So.  What, is this thing cursed?"

"It sounds like it."  Julie crosses her arms, frowns at the metal wheel in the middle of the door.  "...with a bunch of different spells at once, if his majesty read it right.  I can see five or six, and I bet we could mess them up pretty bad, but...I'm betting we don't actually have to."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."  Julie flashes him a smile, bright and brief and wicked and startlingly beautiful.  "They didn't have all of His Imperial Majesty's passwords."

The idea of Kane leaving a bunch of treasure here ten, fifteen, twenty years ago--never thinking somebody close to him would come back to steal it--makes a kind of hot, vicious amusement roll through Mike.  "You’re the best, Jules, " he says, and draws his sword, just in case.  “Go for it!”

Julie strides up to the door, squares her shoulders like it's somebody she wants to intimidate.  And then she starts to whisper.  Mike only makes out one or two words--every so often Julie will stop, apparently waiting for a response.  She goes through three different phrases, hand held warily on her boomerang, and then she steps forward and whispers a fourth and almost immediately the entire hallway trembles.  Stone grinds, a wave of magic makes Mike’s hair stand on end and his fangs lengthen. 

But then there’s a phenomenal, creaking groan, and the wheel in the middle of the door starts to turn.  The metal-and-concrete behemoth swings slowly open, and one or two dim, flickering lights wink into life on the other side, illuminating a cobwebbed hallway.

“ _Yes,_ ” Julie says, triumphant, and hitches her travelling pack higher on her shoulders.  “Come on!”

Julie’s backpack gets so full they have to carry it back out five times.  There's shelf after shelf of ancient, mysterious machines, sealed boxes, a couple of bottles of wine.  Cases of gleaming, perfectly-round disks with holes in the middle—they look like metal, but they gleam weird and iridescent like an oil slick.  Julie digs enthusiastically, ignoring the cobwebs, and presents Mike with the shiniest pieces, the things that glitter and gleam.  Mike gets distracted for minutes at a time as she keeps digging--turning things back and forth under the lights, spellbound by the shine.

It would take a bunch of trips to get everything back up to the room, by the time they're done.  Julie ends up working some really complicated-looking magic, and whatever she does makes the inside of her backpack about twenty times deeper than it looks on the outside.  She and Mike load it very carefully with machines and pieces of jewelry, mirrors and gems and books and fat stacks of photographs and papers tied up with rotting twine.  

“We can sort these out somewhere more comfortable,” Julie says as they head back down the hallway, in and out of golden strips of sunlight.  “Oh, hey!  Look at this, Mike.  I think you'll like this thing.”

She holds out a piece of glass, cut into a heavy, neat triangular block.  Mike takes it, turns it over—it’s nice, clear and clean, but it’s not really all that special. 

“It’s nice!” he says, because she gave it to him—and it is!  It is nice.  But mostly because she gave it to him.  “Cool.”

Julie laughs and shakes her head.  “Here,” she says, and takes his hand, guiding him forward.  “Here, put it in the light.”

Mike follows her to the next stream of sunlight, baffled, holds out the piece of glass and then jumps as a rainbow flashes across the wall, glittering and vivid against the dim concrete.  Julie laughs at the look on his face and moves the glass slowly, turning it in their hands so the rainbow flashes across the ceiling and floor, gleams on her dark, shimmery hair.  Mike laughs too, disbelieving and amazed, and there are colors dancing in Julie’s dark eyes—it takes everything Mike’s got not to lean down and touch her hair, pick her up and hold her closer, kiss her—

He pulls the glass out of the light. 

“ _Wow,_ ” he says, and turns it over in his hands, polishing the facets carefully.  “Geez, that’s so cool!  We could sell this for  _so much,_ Jules!”

“We probably could,” Julie agrees.  “…We don’t have to, though.”

“Huh?”

“We don’t have to sell it,” Julie repeats.  She’s looking at him with her head a little on one side, smiling at him.  Mike’s heart does a stupid little double-beat.  “You can keep that stuff, now.  If you like it, you can have it.”

Something longing and hopeful stirs faintly in Mike’s gut.  “Oh,” he says, and tries to laugh.  “Nah, I mean, I don’t need a bunch of stuff, we gotta ride light—”

“Mike…” Julie reaches out, rests a delicate hand on his arm and freezes him in place like she’s working magic, steals the air out of his lungs.  “…I don’t know if we do.  Not anymore, I mean, what if…we don’t have to keep  _riding_ at all?  What if we stay?”

God, why does hope  _hurt_ so much?  Mike blinks, coughs a little bit, pulls his hand away to scrub at his eyes.  They sting.  Dust, probably.   _God._ “You know me,” he says.  “Can’t stay in one place too long, I get jumpy!  Ha.”

“Mike,” says Julie gently.  “…you love it here.”

“I love—”  Mike chokes on the word.  Tries again.  “I like havin’ a real job, enough food, a place to hang around—that’s all.  Just nice to have a place to rest for a while.”

“It’d be nicer to have a home,” Julie says, and Mike’s about to keep arguing when he sees the look in her eyes, the quiet hope.

“…Yeah,” he says, and sniffs.  Dust again, agh.  “Yeah, it…it would.”

 “You can keep them,” Julie says firmly, and shoves the backpack into his arms, suddenly business-like.  Turns away, apparently straightening her vest, making sure her sleeves are rolled up—but Mike’s pretty sure he sees her reach up and wipe her eyes, really fast.  His heart gives a painful little bittersweet twist.  “You should have something nice.  You can have the whole bag, it’s yours.”

“What?” says Mike, incredulous.  “Hah—no, Jules, come on!  You broke through the door, you found most of these, I’m not gonna take—”

“You can keep them,” Julie repeats, and…hesitates.  Clears her throat.  “Call it—call it an apology for being a coward all these years.” 

And before Mike can ask “Being a what?” she darts back to him and leans up to kiss him lightly on the lips.  Just a peck, but startling and close and warm.  Mike stares at her, clutching the backpack to his chest, and Julie stares back at him almost nervously.

“Well, uh,” she says, and twists her hair around one hand, over  and over again.  “C-consider yourself wooed, I guess.   Er…I implore you to consider my suit, and think of me fondly.”  She stops, smiles up at him and bites her lower lip, and she  _kissed_  him.  She  _likes_ him.   _Consider my suit,_ that’s old-fashioned, that’s  _I want to date you_ but for princesses, and Julie wouldn’t say that on accident.  “The others are all upstairs, I’ll…see you there?”

“…Yeah,” says Mike hoarsely.  He’s still holding onto the backpack full of relics, because if he doesn’t have something to hold onto right now he might fly apart into pieces.  “Y-yeah, I’ll be…yeah.”

“Good,” says Julie, and throws him one last shy glance before she darts off down the hallway, leaving Mike to stand there with an armful of relics and a dumbfounded look on his face. 

\--

The Burners are all sitting around in the room when Mike edges carefully inside.  He goes still when they turn to look at him, suddenly— _terrified,_ just frozen in place.  But nobody brings up what they all said today, nobody tells him to choose.  Julie goes “Oh, there you are!”  and Texas goes “heard you found some good stuff!” and Dutch says “Come on, man, dish!”

It feels…good, bringing things for them, having things he can give them.  Mike breathes, and breathes out, and holds out the pack.  “Plenty for everybody!” he says, and sets it down in the middle of the group, as gently as he can.  “Go crazy, guys.”

They’ve only been unpacking things for about five minutes when there’s a quiet knock at the door.  Julie is closest—she pushes herself up and picks her way through the ever-growing circle of rescued artifacts.

“Oh!” she says, and Mike turns at the tone of her voice and almost swallows his tongue.  Lord Vanquisher is standing in the doorway, looking kind of sheepish and uncertain.  “Your majesty!  Are you here to visit?  I swear, we’ll be there to provide aide if it’s needed, this time.”

“No, don’t do the—apology thing.  It’s fine,” says Chuck, and his eyes dart to Mike and away again.  “It’s fine, I was…fine.  Um…I heard you found some new artifacts.” He edges a little further into the room.  He’s walking really carefully, like he doesn’t want to touch any of the stuff Mike found—which, if he was anybody else then heck yeah, this is  _Mike’s_ stuff (Mike can have it, he can  _keep_ it, it’s his!) and he doesn’t want strangers touching it.  But Chuck?  Chuck doesn’t have to be careful.  Mike would give him anything he wanted.  “I’ve been wondering what was downstairs ever since we came to the castle, uh…  Can I see what you found?”

“You can have them,” Mike says earnestly, and Chuck’s eyes flicker to his face. 

“But they’re…” he hesitates, and the other Burners all pause at what they’re doing, looking up at him too.  Chuck swallows.  “…yours,” he finishes, kind of lamely.

“Yeah, but.”  Mike nudges one or two of the shiniest ones at Chuck, grinning hopefully.  “If you  _want_ them…” A flash of brilliance—he turns around abruptly, digs through the pile and picks up the prism.  There’s no way Chuck can resist that.  “Look, see!  Check this out.”

“Wow, yes,” says Chuck, and smiles at Mike as the glass catches the light, throwing rainbows out across the room.  “That’s pretty cool, Mike.”

“You can have it,” says Mike, dry-mouthed.  It’s the prettiest thing they found, and he doesn’t want to let it go but if it’s Chuck, if it’s one of Mike’s—one of his—Chuck could have it.  “You can, if—if you want.”

 “You don’t have to,” Chuck starts, and then stops, eyes flickering over Mike’s face.  Reaches out slowly and takes the glass out of his hand.  Mike breathes out, almost relieved, and smiles at him.  The king smiles back.  “…Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Mike says hoarsely.  Swallows, remembers himself.  Shakes it off.  “Uh—I know this stuff is…kind of yours, actually, but if it’s okay I was gonna give this to Julie—”  A tiny knife with tons of blades that fold in and out of it, small enough to hide and long enough to hurt.  “—and Texas could have this!”  A slightly musty old hat, like the ones cowboys wore in the old pictures.  Mike dusts it off and grins, pleased with himself—scrambles over to another pile.  “And—and I was gonna give Dutch this one!”  The stack of ancient photos.  The other Burners are watching him, all of them smiling at him, and Mike feels more weirdly self-conscious than he has in a long, long time. 

“…And I thought, uh,” he hesitates, then reaches over and picks up a few of the tiny, shiny tablets they found; delicate, defunct electronics, with carefully-coiled cords attached.  “You’d like, um…  I mean, ha, like I said, this stuff is all yours, and—it’s not really mine, so it’s not like I’d be giving it away, I just thought you guys might like—”

“Easy, cowboy,” says Julie.  She’s still smiling at him, head on one side and eyes all soft and warm.  “…We get it.  Those sound great.”

“Oh, but.”  Chuck glances down at the chunk of glass in his hand.  “I already took—”

“You can have whatever you want!” Mike says quickly.  “I mean, it’s yours.  I don’t mind.  It doesn’t matter if I mind, but I don’t mind.  Ha.”

“That’s…really nice of you,” says the king, and tucks his falling bangs back behind one ear to smile at Mike too.  Everybody’s so happy, and Mike’s chest is full of something so warm and good it almost hurts.  He’s so proud and happy all of a sudden, it makes his throat lock up, his eyes burn.  “Thank you," says Chuck, and takes one of the tablets to turn it over in his hands, rubbing his fingertips over the place the plug clicks into the bottom edge.  “I heard they used to store data on these things, if we can get one started up again…”

“Oh, man, that would be _so cool_.”  Dutch edges over, peering over the king’s shoulder—Chuck glances over abruptly, tensing up, and Dutch leans back a little.  “Sorry.”

“No, it’s…” Chuck hesitates, smiles again, kind of cautious.  “It’s fine.  Do you like archaiomechanics?”

“ _Do_ I?” Dutch laughs, brilliant and enthusiastic and— _amazing._ “I made a couple of screens flicker once or twice but I never got somethin’ actually running.  There’s not a lot you can do on the road, y’know?  And then we kinda had to sell ‘em, so I never got to actually finish anything.” 

“Oh _no_ ,” says Chuck, apparently wounded by the very thought.  “Oh geez, that _sucks_.”

“They had a running computer, at the new capitol,” Julie chips in.  “I played a game on it, once.  It was a long time ago, I don’t really—”

“A game?” Chuck’s eyes are wide, lighting up like they do when he talks about magic theory.  “Against who?”

“Against the…computer, I guess.”  Julie grins at the look on Chuck’s face.  “I know.  It was pretty cool.  I wanted to steal it when we left, but it’s  locked up somewhere in the middle of the palace, and we made a…pretty dramatic exit.”

“Texas woulda grabbed it for you,” Texas says.  “He’s cool that way, woulda been no problem.”

“I’m sure you would have turned the tide, if you were there,” says Chuck, grave and kingly, and Mike catches the quirk at the corner of his mouth as Texas puffs up with pride. 

“You would have been great,” Julie says, half-laughing.  “Your Majesty—

“Oh, uh,” says Chuck, still smiling, kind of wondering and wide and uncertain.  Mike wants—he wants to— “You can call me Chuck.  Mike—Sir Chilton does, so.”  He shrugs, one-shouldered and awkward, glances at Mike from under his hair.  His smile is sweet, his top two buttons are undone.  The urge sweeps over Mike, sudden and fierce, to kiss the scars over his collarbones.  “…I guess I’m starting to like it.”

“Tiny’s good that way,” says Texas.  “Makin’ people like stuff.”

“He _is_ good,” Dutch says firmly.  “Mike’s great.  Hey Mike, you’re great.”

“Come on, dude, quit it,” says Mike, but he can’t stop grinning, feeling his face go hot.  He’s suddenly, staggeringly aware that everybody in this room…likes him.  _Wants_ him, wants him like…wants to _kiss_ him.  And he’s gonna have to pick, but just for a second he can let himself enjoy this, right?  Just for a minute, all of them laughing with each other, he can pretend—he can just _pretend—_

“He’s not wrong,” says Julie.  “You’re great.”

“You’re _totally_ great,” Texas repeats solidly.

“…You _are_ pretty great,” the king says, very quietly, and Mike opens his mouth to answer and suddenly can’t think of anything to say. 

“Oh my god, Mike’s blushin’!”  Texas guffaws.  “Never seen that before!  Aww, lookit.”

“Come here, cowboy,” says Julie, laughing.  Mike shifts his weight, vengefully kicking Texas in the thigh as he goes, and bumps his head against Julie’s shoulder as she pulls him in for a one-armed hug.  “We laugh at you because we care.”

“Uh-huh,” Mike goes, as sarcastically as he can manage.  Dutch snorts.  Julie doesn’t let go, just holds onto him, and Mike startles as her fingers thread suddenly through his hair.  Julie pauses, hesitates, then strokes her nails over the back of his skull.  Mike shivers all over. 

“Come here,” Juliesays again, and coaxes him down onto his side, pulling his head onto her knee, tracing the shell of his ear with a fingertip to make him shudder again.  Scratching at the nape of his neck.

It feels nice, just…really nice.  Lying still after so many days without action makes him feel all jumpy and weird, kinda wired and jittery.  But he can feel Chuck’s hip pressed up against one of his shins, and Chuck isn’t moving away from it.  Mike would lie still for as long as they wanted him to, if they would lie there with him.  Over him, around him, pressing him down warm and close.

The others go back to talking over his head, and Mike lies there and watches the glitter of his new treasures changing hands, faint through his eyelashes.  They’re talking about currents and data decomposition and a bunch of other stuff—Texas doesn’t seem to get it any more than Mike does, but that’s never bothered Texas much and he has plenty to say anyway. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been lying there, enjoying the feeling of being in the same place as the people he loves, when Julie pauses.

“…Mike?” she says, and a hand touches his cheek.  Mike feels it, hears it, but he doesn’t want to move.  This moment is perfect, and he doesn’t want to break it. 

Julie waits a second, and then sighs, not unhappily.  “…I think he’s asleep.”

“Aw.”  Dutch is smiling, Mike can hear it in his voice.  Well, he's definitely not gonna wake up  _now._

There’s a minute or two of silence, and he’s just starting to drift again when Dutch says, “…so, everybody got to tell him, right?”

It takes all of Mike’s self-control not to sit bolt upright.  Nobody seems to notice the hitch in his breathing, the faint twitch he barely manages to control. 

“Texas did,” Texas says, and Julie goes “…mmhm.” 

“Told him what?” says Chuck.  He sounds abruptly nervous, like he’s scared they told Mike some dark secret about him or something. 

“Told him, y’know,”  Texas sounds half defiant.  “Told him we like him.”

“Oh!” says Chuck.  “Uh.  You mean, like…”

“I think you know what we mean,” says Julie quietly.  Her fingers trace Mike’s jawline again, and the touch is so unexpectedly intimate it makes him shiver. 

“Yeah!” says Chuck, high and strangled.  “Right, yes, yeah.  Of course.  I guess I, ha, I might as well take myself out of the running, then.”  He laughs, but it doesn’t sound very happy.  “I mean, not that I could’ve been—we couldn’t have.  I mean, um.”

“It’s cool, man,” says Dutch quietly.  “We get it.  Pretty sure you’re wrong about where you are in the running, but uh…yeah, we get it.”

“You _are_ the king, y’know,” Julie says.  Her hand is still on Mike’s shoulder, and Mike can hardly breathe.  He focuses on staying still, on keeping his breathing almost steady.  “…Nobody can tell you not to court him if you want to.”

“I know.”  Chuck sounds miserable.  “I know, it’s not…that’s not the problem.  He’s got you guys, okay, he doesn’t need me.  And, and you’re probably going to move on sometime…soon?”

There’s a moment of silence.  Nobody talks, nobody _breathes._ Mike holds perfectly still, listening so hard his ears ache.

“…Do you want us to?” Julie asks finally, quietly.

“I-I mean, I know there must be better employers out there—”

“Not what she said, King Skinny,” says Texas.

“I’m not—no!  Okay, no, I don’t… _want_ you to go, but that’s not…” Chuck trails off helplessly. 

“What he’s sayin’ is the _Duke_ wants us gone,” says Texas.  Chuck's weight shifts uneasily against Mike's leg.

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you’re _sayin’_.”  Texas huffs.  “Look, Mike wants to kiss you _real_ bad, y’know?”

“I know,” Chuck says.  “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” says Julie.

“I know.  I know, sorry.  Agh, sorry.  Dammit.”

“You don’t just do _everything_ the Duke says to do, like, _all the time,_ right?” Texas sounds annoyed now, and Mike can feel a faint twitch run through Chuck’s leg, like he flinched.  “…’Cause I’m jussayin’, if you do, you ain’t the king.  He is.”

“What?!”  Chuck laughs, high and tight.  “No, I—no.  I don’t—not _everything_.”

“Okay,” says Texas.  “So make Mike the thing you do he _doesn’t_ tell you to.  Screw that guy.”

“Don’t talk about my advisor like that,” says Chuck quietly.  Flat and tired all of a sudden, like he always seems to be when he defends the Duke to Mike.  Like he’s ready not to be listened to.  “I do _not_ appreciate your tone.”

“But—” Texas starts.  There’s a heavy, muffled thump.  “Oof.  Okay, okay!  Sorry, or whatever.  But you still don’t hafta listen to him all the time.  You like Mike, Mike likes you.  If you don’t want him, Texas is gonna take him.”  A beat.  “…or one of the other guys, y’know, whoever he picks, whatever.”

“That’s…” Chuck stops, and Mike can hear him swallow.  His skin is suddenly prickling, nervous and hot, anticipation wiring him up so fast he can barely hold still.  Chuck starts again, slow, stopping and starting.  “…That’s not how being the king—”   Pause, breathe.  “I mean, h-he’s very—but I can’t show favoritism toward—not that he’s not—agh, okay, I would, y’know, if I _could,_ but I can’t!  Okay?!  B…being with somebody…sharing—letting somebody take—it’s a big thing, it’s not just something I can ignore his advice about!”

“Well, that’s all you, man,” says Dutch.  “But if Mike looked at me how he looked at you...”

For a second the words just hang in the air.  Then, slowly, Chuck shifts.  Pulls away from the place he’s touching Mike, the single warm point of contact. 

“I’ll…I will consider what you have said,” he says, and he’s so _scared,_ Mike can hear it in his voice, in the sudden, cool court formal.  “Please tell Sir Chilton goodnight for me.”

“Take the presents he gave you,” says Dutch.  “Come on, you know what that stuff means to him.  You can’t leave it, he’ll think…”

“I know.  I know what it means, I…I know.”  Air shifts close to Mike—a flash of rainbow through his closed eyelids as Chuck picks up the prism.  “Tell him—”

“No disrespect, your majesty,” says Julie.  “But whatever you want us to tell him, you can tell him yourself.”

Chuck doesn’t answer.  Footsteps.  The door opens, closes again. 

Mike’s still frozen, listening, barely breathing, when a hand lands on his shoulder, gives it a firm shake.  “Time to wake up, Mike,” says Dutch’s voice, and all the adrenaline that’s been building up, every twitch and caught breath, all seems to snap at the same time.  Mike jerks, sits up fast and hard, stares around.  He’s half-hoping Chuck will still be there, even though he _heard_ him go—he’s nowhere to be seen.  

“Whoa, good morning to you too,” says Julie.  Mike stares up at her, tries to keep his breathing even.  Julie’s smile fades a little.  “Are you okay?  Were you…dreaming, again?”

“I’ve gotta go for a ride,”  Mike says, and scrambles upright, away from all of them.  He tries a reassuring smile, but by the way the others look at him, it doesn’t work all that well.  “I just, I gotta…get some air.”

“Tiny, it was just a bad dream,” Texas starts, but Mike isn’t listening.  Somebody calls out his name as he ducks out the door, but he doesn’t listen to that either. 

The hallway outside is dim, full of evening light.  They all want him.  The sun is starting toward the horizon, the city stretches out as far as he can see.  He wants all of them so much.  He wants Chuck to choose him.  He wants to choose all of them.  He wants to stay.  He needs to go. 

People are moving in the room behind him.  Footsteps, somebody coming after him.  They’ll want to talk, and Mike can’t talk, and the hallway feels too small, closing in on him.  He needs open air, he needs to move so fast the world melts away, he needs to fight, he needs to _go._

Mike puts his head down, and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cons:  
> \- not impartial anymore and everybody knows it. compromised military decisions?  
> \- power imbalance probably not ethical ~~even if he wants to~~  
>  \- extra target for assassins/kidnapping  
> \- he could still be lying  
> \- ~~the Duke would tear me a new~~ looks bad to subjects  
>  \- flight knows him better, can go with him when he has to leave
> 
> Pros:  
> \- Mike
> 
> * * *
> 
> \-- Untitled list to be seen briefly in the fireplace of the Vanquisher, Ruler of Raymanthia, Lord of the Michigan Wilds. Before burning, the rest of the pros list appears to have been violently scribbled out, and then torn off and ripped into small pieces.


	9. Closed Eyes, Open Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike has a hard decision to make. Fortunately, there's plenty to distract him from making it; Raymanthia has drawn attention from a powerful neighbor, and the winds are changing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- A marriage involves two partners, chosen by the Office of Marital Affairs.  
> \- Any relationship outside of an empire-approved marriage is considered infidelity, and should be reported. A first offense with one partner will earn a sentence of divorce, public discipline and removal from the marriage registry.  
> \- Infidelity with more than one unapproved partner will be severely punished, often by imprisonment or banishment from the empire.
> 
> \-- Deluxian 5th Grade Marital Necessities Briefing

 

Mike rides that night until Mutt's too tired to run anymore.  It's dark by the time he gets back to the palace, and Mutt has to follow him around the stable, nudging with her nose and huffing at pieces of tack, her brush, her feed, until Mike finally gets his brain together and gets her cleaned up and fed.  His brain feels blown clean, kind of empty and brittle, like...like that one time Texas showed them how to blow the insides out of an egg.  Mike feels like leftover empty eggshells, fragile, and he hates it.  

The other Burners are sitting awake when he gets back to the room, which is...also not great.  They're acting like everything is cool, but Mike can tell there's something weird in the air.   _Is he gonna pick now?  Did he pick while he was out?_   

Everybody makes almost-normal conversation for ten or fifteen minutes before Mike can't take it anymore.  He goes to bed early, and within ten minutes he hears the others do the same.

Texas and Julie are gone when he wakes up the next day, and there are people from the palace museum knocking on the door.  Mike pulls himself out of bed already in a grumpy mood, and reluctantly parts with a couple of the more delicate treasures he found.  The old letters and books need to be enchanted for preservation and put under glass, before sunlight and incautious handling ruins something ancient and irreplaceable.  Mike doesn’t care too much about those—it’s not like he was going to read them anyway—but he has to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from growling when they take some of the intricate metal machines. 

“ _Man,_ ” Dutch sighs, as he watches them go.  “…Wonder if they’d let me mess around with those.  Bet I could get ‘em working again.”

"...Chuck would let you," Mike says, and makes himself relax.  "He's not gonna lock 'em up like Kane did, he keeps that whole museum anybody can go in and look at."

"Yeah, but I don't just wanna  _look_ at 'em," Dutch says, and groans.  " _Man_ , maybe if we took a couple apart, we could tell what they used to do!  How cool would that be?"

"That would be pretty dang cool," Mike agrees, half-laughing, and Dutch throws him a slightly-embarrassed grin.

"...You okay with them takin' your stuff?"

"The king let us keep a ton of it," Mike says, because it's true. 

"Not what I asked, Mike."

"Yeah, I mean--it--whatever.  It's fine."

"Mm."  Dutch nods slowly, thoughtful.  "...You wanna show me the stuff you kept?"

He's definitely trying to distract Mike from losing his new things--and it works.  Mike pulls Dutch back into the room he's been sleeping in and shows him how he's laid everything out, so everything nice and shiny and ancient catches the light and glitters.  Dutch makes appreciative noises and touches things really gently, careful not to disturb how Mike had them set up, and Mike thinks  _you could pick..._ and then hates himself.  He can't pick because of something this small.  The others would like this stuff too, probably, it wouldn't be fair.  

Maybe Dutch notices that Mike is suddenly tensed up and unhappy, because he doesn't look for much longer than that.  He says something about talking to the castle curator, grabs his bag and pats Mike's shoulder awkwardly, and then kind of vanishes so fast Mike can't even say goodbye.  Which is...fine.  It's fine.  

It's not fine.  Mike's gotta pick, before he ruins everything.  

The thought makes his stomach churn uneasily, makes him jump up and pace.  Maybe if he can just work off some of this jittery tension, deal with the way it feels like he's about to jump out of his skin, he can make a good decision.  He can figure it out.  

The castle guard is already up too, it turns out.  The ones who weren't on duty last night and aren't on duty this morning are down in the courtyard, running through their paces under Ruby's watchful eye.  Mike joins in, runs through sword drills, through unarmed combat.  By the time they're done, he's sweaty and panting and even _less_ relaxed than he was when they started.  So much for that idea.

Okay.  So, new idea.  A hot shower, a change of clothes.  Calm down a little bit.  Make a decision.  Figure it out.

Lord Vanquisher is in court when Mike slips back in, getting very formally presented with some kind of rolled up scroll while some guy talks at length in court formal so flowery Mike can't even really make out what he's saying. Chuck's eyes dart up when Mike walks through the gates; Mike spares just a second to stare, taking in the way his hair gleams gold in the light from the glass windows overhead.  The way his green cloak looks against his pale skin.  Then he just bows and gives a cheesy kind of salute, and makes a break for it.  

He shouldn't have worked out, that was a dumb mistake.  His body's all keyed up now, his brain is harder to keep under control.  Flicking from thought to thought, Not just the thought that's been screwing with him ever since he got here-- _warm and close and dark under his cloak, the king panting softly against his ear as Mike bites marks into his neck--_ but other stuff now, too.  Texas pinning him down and grinning at him, Dutch's long, clever fingers sliding under his clothes, Julie standing over him with a hand on his head and hot expectation in her eyes.  

Mike turns his thoughts determinedly to armor maintenance.  Nothing else, nobody else.  Nothing he wants, nobody he has to choose between.  God.  

He's so busy thinking about how he needs to take some time to buff out the scratches in his breastplate from the disastrous mission with the bandits, he barely hears the voices until he's right outside the door to the Burners' rooms.

"...about telling him, he took that pretty good!"

Mike slows down, startled.  Texas is talking pretty loud, but with the hissing tone to his voice that means he thinks he's whispering.  

"Yeah but we knew he'd be cool with us likin' him," Dutch says.  "He’s got plenty to think about, he doesn’t need us to freak him out now."

"You know who he's gonna pick," Texas says, sulky and rebellious.  Mike's stomach twists.  

"The Duke won't let him."

"Ain't like he can stop him--"

“He kinda can.”

“He’ll make his choice when he’s ready,” Julie says.  “We knew this would be hard, we already talked it to death, can we just drop it?"

Nobody answers.  Mike waits there for a long minute, but nobody else talks about him, and eventually his heart slows down until he doesn't feel like he's choking on it anymore.  

They all jump when he opens the door. 

Texas goes "Oh, hey Mike!!" really loud and Dutch has a huge, guilty smile on his face.  Julie's face is totally calm and cool, but that's just because she's Julie.

"Hey, guys," says Mike.  Opens his mouth to say something else--closes it again.  "Hey." 

“Did you go to court?”  Julie sounds perfectly normal still—too perfectly.  If nothing was up, she would never sound this perfectly cool and collected.  She’s nervous too.  Mike can’t really look at her.  At any of them. 

“Uh…no.  Worked out with the guards.”

“And didn’t invite Texas?”  Texas sounds borderline hurt, which is not okay in any sense of the word.  Mike winces.

“Sorry, dude.”

“No, I mean, it’s _cool_ ,” Texas says quickly.  “Just woulda been a cool awesome time, that’s all.  But Texas can figure out his own cool, awesome—”

Somebody knocks on the door. 

Mike’s first, inane thought is that it’s Chuck, that he also wants Mike to choose.  In his mind, Lord Vanquisher gestures imperiously and says _by your oath I command you to make your decision_ , or, or something like that, and Mike has to pick but—

It’s not Chuck.  It’s a girl, out of breath and flushed like she’s been running.  She’s leaning against the wall across the hall from the door; she snaps upright when Mike opens it.  “Lady Wildcat!” she pants, and then does a double-take at the sight of Mike standing there instead.  “Oh!  Uh—Sir Smiling Dragon—and, and esteemed knights, um…”  She looks very startled to see them all in one place, but she gathers herself pretty impressively and clears her throat.  "His majesty requires your presence in the central tower!"

"What for?" Mike says sharply. "I just saw him in court and everything looked fine—  Is there trouble?"

"I know not, sir," says the messenger.  "But he requires you...urgently."

\--

The king is standing over a map when the messenger bows the Burners in.  He looks up and relaxes, just a little, when he sees them.  The Duke, who's standing at his shoulder and looking peeved, does not.  

"Oh," he says, dripping with sardonic joy.  "Good, our  _strategic council_."

" _Duke,_ " says the king tiredly.  Turns to the Burners and gives Mike a strained kind of smile.  "There has been...a development of great strategic and political import," he says.  "The kingdom of Brightwater wishes to send an ambassador to our capitol.  Your council would be greatly appreciated."

Julie makes a soft, interested noise and slides forward past Mike like a shadow, prowling to Chuck's other side to look down at the map.  The Duke's eyes narrow and his lip twists a little bit as Julie gets closer.  Behind him, his woman at arms turns her head minutely, tracking Julie's every move.  

"Brightwater?" says Mike.

"A kingdom to the northwest," says Chuck absently. “They are…much older and significantly more wealthy.  You see my concern.”

“Huh?” says Mike, and then clears his throat and tries again at the pointed look Julie gives him.  “Concern, my king?”

“Mm.”  Chuck frowns.  “I see no purpose for their offer.  And…no action is without purpose, so it follows the purpose is hidden.”  He frowns, a hand twitches and then falls back to the table again.  Mike can almost see him wanting to nervously play with his hair, rub his eyes, resisting the urge.  “…We have fought for two years without ally or assistance,” he says, quieter, almost like he’s talking to himself.  “By this point my tolerance and my trust both run ragged.”

“Maybe the  _purpose_  is the mightiness of Raymanthia’s totally mighty army,” Texas suggests.  “They have seen how your enemies flee in front of you, and Texas, and they want to partake in a piece of that sweet action.  Texas would say they are pretty dang smart to get in upon the ground floor, is what Texas would say.”

Chuck blinks at him.  “That…is an interesting supposition,” he says, a little bit weakly.  “You think they would consider this kingdom a worthwhile ally?”

“I think anybody would,” says Mike firmly.

“Agreed,” Texas says. 

“This is all…a- _very_ touching,” the Duke says, “But the king is right.  There are some  _rumors_ about Brightwater I wouldn’t  _dream_ of sharing in civilized company.”  He glances at the Burners over the top of his sunglasses. “…remind me to tell you some time.”

“ _Duke,_ ” says Lord Vanquisher again, quiet and flat.  The Duke’s eyes flicker to him, and he leans back slowly, every movement measured.   _I’ll do it because I want to, not because you ordered me to,_  thinks Mike, and has to suppress a grin.  The look the Duke gives him could curdle milk.  Chuck either doesn't notice or pointedly ignores it.  “You are…well-travelled," he says, which Mike thinks is a pretty nice way of saying "nobody has wanted to hire you for like five years".   _Diplomacy._ "Have any of you had contact with the kingdom before?  Any word of their trustworthiness, who holds their crown…?”

“Before we left Deluxe, the most recent news suggested it was under the rule of their majesty Archer," says Julie.  "Crown of the Purified Spring."  She keeps her voice really even, like she doesn't even care, but Mike knows for a fact when she says "the most recent news" she means "my lessons with my dad".  He can see Julie give him the briefest possible glance, then look back at the map, frowning thoughtfully.  "They were considered a hostile kingdom, and had no dealings with Deluxe.  That at least speaks to their trustworthiness."

"My…a friend of mine lives beyond Brightwater,” Dutch says carefully.  Mike sees the Duke’s eyes narrow on Dutch’s face, but the thrill of protective anger is muted beyond the confused twist in his stomach.  Right.  _Right,_ and Dutch still calls Tennie most nights, they’re about as in love as Mike’s ever seen anybody—stupid!  Dutch tried to explain the whole thing, something about Tennie not wanting to have sex with anybody and them just loving each other for their personalities and art and brains and stuff, but he did say _love,_ and—

“—correct, Sir Chilton?”

“Huh?” says Mike again, and shakes his head.  Right, yes, right.  War-meeting.  Or—peace-meeting, whatever.  “Sorry, sir, I was distracted.  It won’t happen again.”

Julie gives him a wide-eyed glance, and Mike swallows, feels his face heat up.  Geez, not just informal but  _military_ informal _._ Like he’s a corporal getting friendly with his sergeant in some war-camp somewhere.   _Get it together, Mike._  

“I asked if you had any information for our consideration,” says Chuck, graciously choosing to ignore both Mike’s slip-up and the Duke’s barely-muffled snort of derision. 

“Oh, uh.”  Mike blinks, trying to focus on what they were talking about.  “I…have seen many kings and queens who would make…threats of war, only in attempt to intimidate.  But promises of peace are…”  He can’t figure out exactly what he wants to say.  Lord Vanquisher is nodding, though.  “…We allied ourselves with your kingdom,” Mike finishes, and shrugs.  “Because we find you…worthy.  Uh…Raymanthia, I mean.  There is no reason why another ruler might not…think the same.”

The king stares at him for a long second.  His eyes are flickering over Mike’s face, like he’s trying to read something there.  Mike looks back, and hopes the king can see the honesty in his eyes.

"…We may as well speak with them," Chuck says finally, and Mike grins as a muscle twitches in the Duke's jaw.  “If they truly can be trusted, they would make valuable allies.”

“If they desire war, they will have a war regardless,” Julie points out.  The king inclines his head to her, still frowning at the map. “And if they do not, then they would make valuable allies.  Do not imagine they would be offended by a...healthy level of paranoia.  Any reasonable ambassador would expect your security to be high."

"A healthy level of paranoia," repeats the king dryly, and shakes his head, lips twitching.  "Very well.  Then my decision is made.  We will entertain this...attempt at diplomacy."

Mike grins, and sees the Duke glare at him.  He smiles wider, toothy.  

"Thank you for your council," says Chuck.  "Please, continue with your morning.  Sir Chilton?"

"Sire."

"Please tell Sir Ericsson to prepare for a diplomatic liaison," says the king.  "He'll handle all preparations."  He pauses and glances back at the Duke, just a flicker of his eyes.  Mike's expecting the tiny flinch--he's not expecting the way Chuck's lips thin a second later, shoulders squaring.  "...I believe my advisor would like to speak to me privately."

"...Yes, sire," says Mike slowly.  It's desperately hard to lock up a protective growl in his chest, breathe through it instead of letting it out.  His voice still sounds a little bit too rough to his own ears.  "Do you...require, uh..."

"No," says Lord Vanquisher firmly.  "I do not.  Please give us the room."

Mike is the last one out; he sees Chuck raise a hand, light gathering in his palm as Mike starts to pull the door closed.  The Duke turns and opens his mouth, Lord Vanquisher draws a bubble of silence in the air around them, and then the door is shut and Mike can't hear anything at all.

It takes Mike ten minutes to find Thurman; it takes Thurman about fifteen seconds to stir the whole castle into a frenzy.  All of a sudden the hallways that used to be quiet and mostly empty are full of people running around, setting up tables, cleaning and decorating.  People climb out onto the glass roof of the throne room, tethered and carefully spelled with levitation magic, and polish the glass until it shines.  There are long tables being set up, smells of food cooking wafting through the tower.  

Mike doesn't see the king for the rest of the morning.  He looks, sort of vaguely wandering through the castle, but either Chuck is busy or he doesn't want to be seen.  

Mike's ended up out on the castle walls, looking out over the city and wondering if he'll be able to see the ambassador coming, when Ruby's voice echoes out across the courtyard.

" _King's guard and palace staff, to the king's court!  All guards and palace staff, to the court room_." 

When Mike gets to the court, it's full of people milling around, looking about as confused as he feels.  He sees Thurman standing by the wall, looking people over, looking really nervous and kind of stressed--Mike wanders over to him and Thurman gives him a distracted smile and a nod.  

"What's going on, dude?"

"Well," says Thurman.  "Since, y'know, we haven't had a visitor from another kingdom in a long time--" he pauses, looking over Mike's shoulder.  "Oh, shoot.  It's starting!  Shh!"

A figure in a white shirt and very trim vest is striding up to the front of the court, standing on the dais with the throne.  They clap their hands, and the murmur in the hall dies down as heads turn toward them.

"Welcome to your mandatory court-formal refresher course!” says the stranger brightly.  "My name is Clara Bright, I run the New Detroit School of Formality and Decorum.  You may call me Ms. Bright."  She makes a very crisp, precise bow.  "Now!  The capitol has not hosted an ambassador since the revolution.  It is my solemn duty, and my honor, to make sure we are  _prepared_.  Every person in this room will leave at the end of the day knowing how to show at least a semblance of respect to the ambassador of a foreign crown!”

She sweeps her eyes over the crowd, and Mike finds his back straightening automatically.  Geez, it's been a long time since he was in school, but this is taking him straight back.  

"Alright," says Ms. Bright, and makes a sweeping gesture, beckoning and demanding.  “The ambassador just entered the room!” she declares.  “Rise!  Bow!”

\--

Lessons go on for the better part of the day.  At one point, the king comes and stands at the side of the classroom, listening in; Mike keeps trying to catch his eye, but within a minute or two the Duke follows him in and throws an arm around his shoulders, leaning down to whisper in his ear.  Chuck answers him a couple of times, and Mike is pleased to see that he doesn't seem to be agreeing; even from the other side of the room, he can see the tension in Chuck's shoulders and the way he's talking through his teeth.  Once or twice, Mike sees him shake his head or sees his eyes dart up to where Mike is sitting.  The Duke laughs at whatever response he gets—he makes a small but extravagant gesture and whispers something that makes Chuck’s face go pink.

Mike wants— _really_ wants—to march over there and say “Hey, whatever you’re saying about me, you can say it to my face.”  But last time the Duke started whispering stuff, Mike got hexed and made an idiot of himself in front of the entire castle.  He's not going to let that happen again.  He turns his eyes stubbornly forward, focuses ferociously on the teacher.  He can almost feel Chuck glance at him again--he doesn't look.  He's going to learn this, and make his king proud this time, and totally kick this party's butt.  

The next time he looks around, Chuck is shaking the Duke's arm off of his shoulders.  The next time, they're both gone.  Mike faces back ahead, fighting not to grin, and obediently repeats a greeting.   _Finally_.

He has every intention of going to find Chuck as soon as the sun starts to go down.  Either he's still mad, and Mike can maybe talk to him candidly about the Duke, or he's upset and Mike wants him to feel better.  Plus...the other Burners are waving at him from across the hall.  And Mike can't, he doesn't--he can't, yet.  He doesn't know who to pick.  He waves back, smiling too wide, and hurries away, heading back up toward the room.

He’s barely made it back to his room and started unbuttoning his dress shirt when there’s a hum of magic in the air and a faint, muffled voice says “… _Mike?_ ”  

Mike stares around, and then scrambles across the room and finds his pack, thrown carelessly against the side of one of the couches.  When he opens it up, there’s a faint glow inside.

“ _Mike_?” says his mirror again.

“Lord…Vanquisher?” Mike tries, almost uncertainly.  He’s used this mirror to call a couple of times now, and it…weirdly never occurred to him that Chuck could use it to call  _back._

The king stares out at him from the surface of the mirror.  He’s still got his crown on, but Mike can’t see a gorget or breastplate, and it looks like he might not be wearing his cloak any more.  “… _I’m up on the roof, on the North tower,_ ” he says, without preamble.  “ _I need to talk to--”_

“I’m on my way.”

—

Getting to the roof is harder than Mike would’ve thought.  It turns out there isn't an elevator that goes all the way up, and Mike has to hunt down a stairwell and hike all the way up to the top floor.

He doesn't see Chuck immediately.  The sun is starting to go down over the river, and he gets sidetracked staring out over the water far, far below.  He doesn't even remember what he's up there for until he hears somebody clear their throat softly behind him.  When he turns around he sees the king, sitting on the roof near the opposite edge, looking out over the city.  He's got a tanktop on underneath his unbuttoned shirt, his hair tied up in a messy ponytail, and he looks incredibly tired.  

"Your majesty!"  Mike ducks a quick bow, strolls over and settles down too, swinging his legs over the side.  There's a giddy tilt in his stomach, being this high up--Chuck squeaks quietly, reaches out and puts a hand on Mike's arm like he's scared Mike's going to slide off the edge.  Mike has to laugh a little bit, but he doesn't shake the touch off.  It feels...nice, to be touched.  To be worried about.  Chuck takes his hand away again after a second, knots his hands together in his lap.  He can't seem to meet Mike's eyes.

"...So," Mike ventures, after a long minute of silence.  "This treaty with Brightwater's got you really stressed, huh?"

Chuck sighs.  "Yes," he says.  "That is...what I called you up here to talk about."  He seems to catch himself, realize the formality of the words.  He clears his throat and starts again.  "Just, they're a lot bigger, and older and wealthier.  And I still don't really trust them, but I know they'd make better employers than Raymanthia would--"

"What, you thought we'd let them buy us away?" Mike laughs, but Chuck isn't laughing.  His eyes dart away, his hands work nervously.  Mike's smile falls a little.  "...Sire, seriously?"

"Look."  Chuck holds out both hands, miserable but determined.  "I need to ask if I can--and I know, I know it sounds like I don't trust you.  But I'm just...scared."

Half of Mike's brain wants to growl, because  _gee, I wonder whose fault_ that _is._ Who could  _possibly_ be planting the thought in Chuck's mind that Mike and the Burners would walk away as soon as an older kingdom with more money came along to steal them away?  

"Whatever you want, sire," he says instead.  "...'My steel is yours to command', remember?"

If anything, that makes Chuck wilt even more.  "... _I know,_ " he says.  "But I'm not asking for your steel, Mike.  I want—can I—" he squeezes his eyes shut, finishes almost in a whisper, "...I need to put a truth spell on you.  Just, just for a couple minutes. I can't afford to let my—stupid—I know I'm gullible as  _hell_ , and—"

"Chuck!   _Chuck."_   He's working himself up, not listening--Mike dares to grab his shoulders, giving them a sharp little shake.  "Dude, hey— _sire!_   Your majesty, listen to me.  It's  _fine._   Totally, just go for it!  It's fine!"

Chuck stops talking, breathing too hard, staring at him.  "It's...?"

"You're my friend," Mike says, and the king makes a soft little sound, almost pained.  "…And my  _king_ , I swore to obey any order.  You can curse me to heck and back, I’m not gonna stop you--whatever you need to do."

Chuck's whole body slumps.  " _Oh,_ " he says, soft and pained and wondering.  "I...if you're sure..."

"Positive," says Mike firmly.  Saying those words out loud,  _whatever you need to do, I’m not gonna stop you…_ he didn’t really mean to say it like that.  His nerves are kind of humming now, the knowledge of how vulnerable he is as he sits back and opens his arms wide.   _He’ll collar you he’ll take you he’ll make you his—_ he doesn’t even really know if he cares, now.  "Whatever you want.  Hit me with it."

"Okay," says Chuck.  Then again, with more certainty this time, "—okay!  I'll have to, uh...there's some runes I gotta write on you."

"Sure!"  Jeez, it’s  _fine._   It’s a truth spell, he said it would just be a truth spell, Mike  _trusts_ him.  Chuck won’t hurt him, won’t take him.  Won’t use him like that.  Mike trusts him.

"On, um."  Chuck gestures, tips his chin up and touches his throat, skips his fingers down to his chest.  

"Oh!"  Mike reaches up, pulls at the half-unbuttoned neck of his dress shirt.  "Yeah, okay."  It's...yeah, some part of him gets jumpy with his throat bared like that, but it's Chuck.  it's fine, it's okay.  

Chuck's eyes flick across Mike's face, down to his chest, back up to his face again—he takes a shallow little breath and lets it out.  "...Okay," he says very quietly, and leans in, voice falling to the murmur of somebody doing very small work with a delicate touch.  ". _..Hold still..._ "

He traces the runes three times each.  There are four of them—first on Mike's forehead, then his chest, then his throat and then, hesitantly, over Mike's lips.  The first pass just feels like skin on skin, warm and a little rough with sword callus.  The second pass feels too cool, like Chuck's fingers have been dipped in icy water, and the third feels too warm, almost burning.  And then they fade, leaving behind a slight, strange tingle like pins and needles.  Then he pulls his hands away and gives Mike an expectant look.

Mike clears his throat carefully.  Other than the weird tingling, which is already fading, he doesn't feel any different.  "...did it work?"

"I mean, it's  _cast_ ," Chuck says dubiously.  "I haven't actually tried this one before, but it feels right.  Um...can I...?"

"Sure," says Mike.  "Go."

"I'll start with something easy," says Chuck, and thinks for a second before nodding decisively.  "...What's...your name?"

Mike laughs, almost startled.  "You know my name, dude!"

"Answer the question, Mike, come on.”  Chuck waves a hand impatiently.  “Try to lie!”

Mike opens his mouth to say the name of some stranger, and chokes on it.  His mouth can’t seem to move to make the words.  He struggles for a second, but there’s something else rising up in his chest.  

"...Mikhail," he says, finally.

Chuck blinks, apparently startled.  "...M...Michael?"  he tries, and the syllables fall flat and broken in his mouth, not right.

"No," says Mike.  "Kane called me that, but it's not--"  And he stops, and he swallows, because he didn't mean to say that.  He doesn't like to think about this,  _talk_ about it.  "It's wrong.  My...my mom named me Mikhail."

Chuck is still watching him, but his eyes are softer now.  Pained.  "...Sorry," he says.  "That was supposed to be an easy one, I didn't mean..."

Mike glances up, smiles a pained smile.  "It's—I'm—" he fights with the words,  _it's okay, I'm fine—_ it's not.  He's not.  The truth spell won't even let him try to lie to make Chuck feel better.  "...I'm handling it.  I don't want you worrying about my crap, you've got too much to worry about already."

Chuck sighs.  "...I'm fine," he says, and Mike envies him the easy lie.  "What are your intentions with—uh—i-in this court?"

"In this court?"  Mike repeats, and grins.  "Or with you?"

Chuck coughs, cheeks flushing.  "I, uh," he says.  "Wwwell, y'know, um—c-court!  Definitely, definitely in the court—"

"Chuck."

"I mean, it would be, uh, I wouldn't—"

" _Chuckles..._ "

"—Okay!"  Chuck bursts out, "Okay, fine, either!  Both, I guess!"

"My intentions in the court are to do what you order me to, and keep this kingdom safe," Mike says, immediate and earnest.  "I want to fix this bandit crap, and stop people from invading you, 'cause that's...that  _sucks_.  Uh...I want to...be a good knight.  For a good king."

Chuck smiles at him, pleased and touched and proud, and Mike grins back.

"My intentions for you..." he says, and Chuck goes tense all over, eyes widening.  "...I want to be your knight.  I wanna be your  _friend_ , dude, I want you to have a ton of people you trust, who've got your back, and I wanna be one of them.  I..."  He pauses for a second, but it's like the truth pressurizes inside of him until he bursts out, "—I wanna be the one you trust most, though!  I want—a lot of stuff you're not supposed to do with your king, and it's not all sexy but kinda a lot of it is?  I want that to be...okay."  

" _Oh,_ " says Chuck.

"Sorry," says Mike, and grins at him with an apologetic kind of half-wince.  "...what can I say, you're a really nice dude.  You've got a nice face, you've got a nice...sword."  He wiggles his eyebrows roguishly through his bangs, and Chuck sputters and snorts, elbowing him in the ribs.  "—Oof.  I'm into that."  

"You're terrible," says Chuck, but he's grinning kind of shyly.  It’s great, and it’s so much easier with the spell pulling words out of him.  Mike cocks his head to one side, letting the truths flow, not fighting them.  

"What do I want, uh...I want...mm.  I wanna sit next to you in court and have people know I'm yours, your best knight.  I want people to spread rumors about how loyal I am and how much you trust me, ha.  They used to, when I was—"

He stops dead.  Chuck stares at him, startled by his sudden silence—Mike squeezes his eyes shut, knowing he's going to say it, hating himself as the words rise up in his chest.  

"...that's what they used to say," he says.  "...when I was...working for Kane."

There's silence for a second.  Mike can't look over, doesn't want to know what kind of look Chuck is giving him.  The silence stretches on until Chuck clears his throat, soft and careful.  "...why did you leave?" he asks, a little bit timidly.  His eyes flicker down to Mike’s chest again, and Mike glances down and realizes belatedly there’s a strip of stained, scarred skin visible through the open collar his shirt.  The oath-breaker scar, dark as a tattoo.  “I’ve never seen one that dark before, I…it must’ve been…” he trails off, rushes on,  "Uh— _Peace,_ you don't have to answer if you don't want—"

The push from the truth spell vanished as soon as he said the word. but Mike...doesn't want to leave that hanging, doesn't want Chuck to be wondering.  He takes a deep breath, thinks it over.

"He...wanted the people gone from a town," he says carefully.  "He told them to go and they wouldn't.  He marched back in with an army.  Burned the whole town down.  I saw...the whole thing.  Couldn't get there in time."

"Geez," says Chuck, very quietly.  Hesitates, and then shrugs his dress-shirt off his shoulders, leaning.  There’s a dark, blackish-brown line cutting down his spine, a familiar, tough scar with edges too crisp to be made by any weapon.  His scar is less neat and square than Mike’s; a tapered slice like an open wound, starting at the nape of his neck and vanishing under the collar of his tanktop.  He covers it back up a second later, pulls his shirt back up to cover it and shudders a little. 

“I, um,” he stops, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt.  “Most of us have…at least one.  Mad Dog swore everybody in, he’d…hold your family at swordpoint, if he had to.  Kane wasn’t…”

He trails off.  Mike wants to smile at him—some part of him knows what Chuck’s trying to do, is grateful for the support, the understanding.  He can’t quite manage it.

"Kane acted like he was looking out for me," he says instead, and bites back on the words.  Hesitates, trying to control the urge, then gives in and goes on, "...He taught me how to look out for myself, and he turned out to be an evil piece of crap, and—I don't wanna see you get hurt, like.  Like I did.  It still hurts."  

He manages to bite it off after that, but the words are out there, hanging between them.  Chuck is staring at him, mouth slightly open and eyebrows raised, disbelieving.  

"I…I already did, " he says slowly, but there’s a flicker of something unhappy and tense in his tone.  “I just showed you—”

"You know that’s not what I mean," says Mike, hard and pained.  "I—look, I know what it's like."  He forces himself to slow down, feeling out every word.  Chuck is staring at him, shoulders tight.  "...Wanting to make somebody happy and...proud of you.  Wanting it so bad, you'd do anything.  But sometimes the people you love like that are..." he looks away, lips thin, swallows around the heavy, hard knot in his throat.  "...They don't...feel the same way.  Not as much, or...the wrong way, or they love you just as much but the things they want you to do—I don't know, dude."

"The Duke is nothing like Kane," says Chuck, and his tone is firm but there's a trembling edge to it, defensive and hurt.  "Okay?  He's the only reason I'm still alive, I couldn't do what I do without him."

"Yes you  _could,_ " Mike says, pained, but Chuck is already shaking his head.  "I know he's been here with you for a long time—"

"You  _don't_ know!"  Chuck says sharply, and when he snaps like that he's not Chuck anymore—he's a king, young and proud and terrible.  "You don't know what you're talking about!  He's all I've  _got,_ Mike, he's always had my back.  He's—the  _only_ one who has my back, there's never been anybody else!  Not for—for a long time.”

His voice cracks a little on those words, and he looks away hastily, swallows hard.  Mike’s heart does something rough and painful in his chest. 

They're both quiet for a long time after that.  Chuck's breathing has a rough, awful shudder in it; he forces it even again, one slow exhale at a time.  Mike pushes away old hurt, defensive anger, makes himself quiet and still inside.  Waits until the tension has faded from Chuck's shoulders.

“…so,” he says, quieter.  He knew, knew there weren’t any parents in the picture, but he never thought about it.  Not really.  Not enough.  “So your mom, your dad, uh…”

Chuck nods, still not looking up, face hidden behind his hair.  His shoulders are hunched and one of his hands is rubbing the opposite arm, over and over, mechanical and unhappy. 

“… _your_  mom,” he says, fast like he wants to change the subject.  “What was she like?”

Mike opens his mouth, shuts it again.  Remembers a huge, warm body covered in deep green scales, a constant, glowing heat, a rough, sweet voice that sounded like home.  A human shape wrapped in thick, soft fabric, skin as brown as Mike’s and sharp yellow-green eyes.

“…strong,” he says.  “Warm.  I don’t remember, dude, I was…really young when she, uh.”  He winces, hands white-knuckled on the ledge he’s sitting on.  Tries to breathe through the smell of fire and burning meat, tries to think through the sound of humans screaming in pain and fury, his mom crying out in agony.  The moment when the noise had stopped and she hadn’t been screaming any more, and they’d been  _cheering_ —

A hand rests gently on his shoulder.  Mike jumps, blinks away the worst of it.  Chuck’s hand is squeezing his shoulder, his eyes are wide and worried and his mouth is bent into an unhappy frown. 

Mike forces himself to give something almost like a smile.  It feels foreign and awful, and by the way the king winces it doesn’t look much better.

“That was a long time ago,” Mike says, with an effort.  Keeps smiling.  Keeps smiling.  He’d been so scared, he’d curled up small and small and smaller, changed.  Hands and feet and flat teeth and soft skin.

He hadn’t seen the ones who killed her.  When Kane’s men pulled him out of his hiding place and took him to New Deluxe to drag him in front of the king, Kane had waved them off and pulled Mike upright.  Had told him “ _the men who hunted your family down are dead.  Mercenaries and thieves aren’t tolerated in my empire._ ”

He’d let Mike grieve.  That’s the first thing Mike can’t forgive him for.  He’d stopped every so often to put a hand on Mike’s shoulder, to give him a solemn nod, and Mike had  _healed_  with his help.  He’d started to close up the gaping hole in his chest, and then Kane had taught him how to tear himself back open again. 

“ _Mike._ ”

Chuck has both hands on his shoulders, shaking him.  Worried, almost scared.  “Mike!  Dude, are you okay?”

“I,” starts Mike, and then the truth spell tugs at him, and the words he meant to say come out “—no.”  He flinches to hear the word come out of his mouth, and more words escape as he struggles with himself— "Kane said they killed the guys who killed her, he _swore_ —" he forces himself silent, grinding his teeth on the words.  "I don't—want—"

"Ah, uh..."  Chuck stammers for a second.  "— _Peace!_ "

The overwhelming urge to answer fades.  Mike stops talking, breathing hard, trying to shake off the leftover sensation of— _compulsion,_ unwanted and painful.  

"Sorry," Chuck says, and his eyes are round, he's so upset he's starting to edge into court formal again; "—my sincerest apologies, dude I'm so sorry—"

"...'s okay," Mike pants, and scrubs his hands at his eyes.  When he manages a smile, he knows it has to look kind of stiff, weak and pained.  "I know you didn't...it's okay."  He takes another couple of deep breaths.  "...I'm about ready to be done, though, uh...if you don't mind."

“Yeah,” says Chuck.  His hands are still on Mike’s shoulders, warm through his shirt.  “No, yeah,  I…sorry.  I just need to ask one more.”

Mike steels himself, takes a deep breath and nods. 

“…do you have any intention at all of betraying me or my court?”

It’s such a relief.  This one is easy to answer.  “No,” Mike says immediately, half-laughing.  “No, dude, absolutely not.  I’d die first.”

Chuck makes a noise like Mike just punched him in the gut.  Mike blinks at him, surprised, and Chuck opens his mouth to say something, makes a weird kind of groaning sound and closes it again.  “O-okay,” he says weakly.  And then, stronger, almost triumphant.  “Okay.  Ha!  Alright!  I _told_ him—oh, uh.  Hold still for a second.”

He presses the tip of one finger to the places he traced the symbols on Mike’s skin—forehead, throat, chest, lips, the same order again—and the tingling that had faded spikes back up and then diffuses into a faint shiver of heat and vanishes completely.   Mike licks his lips, grimacing a little.  “Is it gone?” he says carefully, and before Chuck can answer, “…I’m secretly a deep double-agent reporting to Kane on the kingdoms of people he—no, wow, okay, it’s definitely gone.”

“Oh, ha ha,” says Chuck sardonically, but he looks more cheerful than he has all day as he pushes himself up.    He stretches for a second, hands on the small of his back, arching his spine—Mike freezes, immediately distracted by the way his butt looks in those tailored dress pants, but thankfully the king doesn’t seem to notice.  "Thurman took some books out of my library for you," he says, like an afterthought, and Mike tears his eyes away and gets up too, strolling back toward the stairs by his king’s side.  "What did you, um...?"

"Oh, I couldn't read it," says Mike.  Chuck blinks at him, obviously confused--Mike sighs.  "...I  _learned,_ " he says.  "I know  _how,_ it's just...I mean, jeez, it's a pain, y'know?  I dunno how people read when the words are all..." he waves a hand.  

"All...?"

"Y'know."  Mike waves a hand again, trying to sum up the way the words seem to jump around in the sentence and repeat themselves, how the lines sometimes seem like they're shuffling around.  "Like they don’t want you to read ‘em and they’re being jerks about it.  It was just some book about, uh, relationships and...stuff."

"...That's...not how reading is supposed to be."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I've gotta read a lot anyway," Mike says, and tries really hard not to sound defensive.  He doesn't really...want to talk about this.  He's heard it all before,  _this should be easy_ and  _just sit still and_ focus,  _boy!_ He doesn't need to hear about how everybody else can read just fine, thanks.  He shrugs it off, casts around for something else to talk about and remembers, "--I'd kinda like to read those papers you've got, though."

Chuck's eyebrows rise.  "Papers?" he says, but there's a look on his face like Mike caught him doing something he shouldn't be doing.

"Yeah, Thurman said you had a bunch of papers about dragons."  Mike shrugs, really casual. 

“Oh!”  Chuck opens his mouth, closes it again.  He looks startled and flattered and flustered, like he always does when Mike asks something about his work.  “Yes, well, I mean…yeah, I do!  I can show you?” 

His private library is just as empty as last time, populated with nothing but stacks of books, shelves of scrolls and documents.  Chuck leads the way back to the shelves where he keeps his huge spell-project, kneels down and pulls a few stacks of paper from a lower shelf.  Mike gets glimpses of titles, squinting to decipher them as Chuck piles them into his arms— _Lived Experiences—Draconic Culture—Bellicose Arts—Instincts and—_

“You’ve got a ton of these, huh?” he says, and Chuck winces like Mike’s judging him or something.  “No, it’s—it’s totally cool, dude, I just didn’t figure there was that much to write about!  Just—big, greedy, fire-breathing lizards.”

Chuck’s mouth thins.  “I don’t think so,” he says.  “I think they’re…uh.  Pretty…neat.  Just, just read the papers.”

Mike tries.  He really, really does.  He picks up the one with “instincts” in the title, gets through the title and into the first paragraph, and has to stop and rub his eyes.  Jeez, his head hurts.

“So, what are you seeing?” Chuck says, soft and fascinated and close to Mike’s ear, and Mike startles and almost drops the paper.  “Sorry!  I thought you heard me coming.”

“Uh…” Mike swallows, not quite comfortable, not quite happy.  But it doesn’t matter if he wants to talk about it, Chuck _does._   And he’s the king.  “Just, everything keeps jumping around.  I mean, I know it’s holdin’ still, letters don’t do that, I just have to…focus.”  He’s heard it enough times, jeez.  Every other teacher thought he was great, but his Mandatory Literacy teacher didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t think Mike was a lazy piece of crap.  Mike’s knuckles are stinging, half-expecting a pointer to slam down on them.  “I’ll get it, I swear.”

“Huh,” says Chuck.  Just _huh_.  Mike’s stomach twists a little.

“It’s not like you hired me to read stuff,” he says, and hears the note of uncertainty too late. 

“Oh!  No, I mean, you—you perform your duties more than adequately, of course!” Chuck says quickly, and the knee-jerk formality is weirdly almost comforting.  Mike relaxes again.  “This isn’t just you not focusing, dude, I think it’s…some kind of mental thing.  I saw a book one time…”

“What does this say?”

Chuck stops, startled.  “Huh?”

Mike points to a line at random—his face feels hot, and not in a good way.  He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, and the fact that Chuck apparently thinks it’s something wrong with his  _brain_ instead of just a moral failing doesn’t actually make him feel much better.  “This part, here.”

“Oh, uh.   _'Information on draconic—_ ’ uh.  In…”  Chuck swallows, a faint, clear noise near Mike’s ear.  “…‘ _information on draconic intimacy is difficult to come by from primary sources'_."  He leans in to see, lowering his voice.  Reaching out to trace a finger past the line Mike pointed to.  For just a second, Mike almost leans back into him, closing his eyes to listen. "... _'Dragons are usually observed to nest in mating groups called 'flights.  Most flights appear to have a central partner who cares and provides for their mates'_.” 

He hesitates, just for a second—his chest is brushing Mike’s back, his shoulder.  Mike licks his lips, trying to keep his breathing normal.  There’s something weird and kind of intense about this.  About sitting here, listening to Chuck murmur in his ear about dragons, about mates and flights.  It makes Mike’s heart pound like it never did when Rayon tried to explain it to him. 

“…' _While many dragons prefer to mate with their own kind, human-dragon relationships have been observed throughout history.  Unlike—_ ’  Um--"

Mike waits.  Chuck takes a breath and lets it out.  “Uh,” he says.  “It just says dragons and humans can…can cross-breed, and there’s only a couple of other species that can do that, um…  Especially because when they make, uh—!  Their, their  _offspring_ aren’t…sterile.  That’s all.”

Mike squints at the sentence Chuck had stopped himself from reading.   _Sexually compatible_ is in there.  So is  _differing descriptions of mating physiology from multiple sources,_ whatever the heck that means.  

...Geez.  Mike already knew dragons could...do stuff, with humans.  There wouldn't be half-dragons out there if they couldn't, and there have definitely been famous half-dragons before.  Not that most of those stories end all that happily, but...dragons can have  _kids_ with humans.  He never thought about that before.

Mike feels like he's just swallowed something really hot and kind of...writhing. 

“Huh,” he says, for want of something better to say. 

“Yeah,” says Chuck.  Mike can hear him swallow again.  “It’s just.  An important facet of, um.  It’s a paper on lived experiences, so, I couldn’t really leave those parts _out,_ I mean—”

“Sure,” says Mike, too fast.  “Yeah, totally.”

“Well, I hope that, uh, satisfies your curiosity, I guess,” Chuck says hastily, and grabs the paper out of Mike’s hands, bundling it back up into his arms.  He’s _definitely_ avoiding Mike’s eyes, pink-cheeked.  “I should get back to work.”

“Oh.  Right, yeah!”  Mike stands quickly, backing up to let Chuck gather up his other papers.  “Thank you for…reading that.  For me.”

“I can read more, sometime,” says the king, without looking around.  The back of his neck is visibly flushing.  His voice sounds even higher than usual, kind of strangled.  If that wasn’t enough to tip Mike off he’s getting nervous, his syntax is slipping steeply toward court formal.  “If you’d, if you liked, I mean?  Not—of course you can read for yourself, Sir Smiling Dragon, but if I can be of any assistance—”

“Yeah, totally!” 

“Good.”  Chuck nods.  “Good.  Yes.  So, we’ll…have to make arrangements.”

“Any time,” Mike says honestly, and backs toward the door.  “Goodnight.  Uh—my king.”

“Goodnight,” says Lord Vanquisher quietly, as Mike starts to back through the door.  “…My dragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Not every knight of great renown has a title, but a titled knight is certain to be distinguished or honored by their monarch. Bestial titles in particular are a long-held standard of heraldry. The meaning of many can be ambiguous; a Knight of the Manticore could be a warrior of great creativity and skill, or known as a jack of all trades. A Thunderbird is often known for great magical power, or as an impartial political advisor.  
> "The role of a court's Dragon, however, is consistent in almost any tradition. It implies a certain level of power, trust between knight and monarch, and above all, loyalty."
> 
> \-- _"Knights Of the Fall: A New Heraldric Tradition"_ by A. Elrifai


	10. Poisoned Tongues, Dragon Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't matter how far you fall. If you really care about your king, and the people you love, there's always more you can give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _The whelp appears to be mostly unharmed, except for a few scrapes and scratches. We estimate him to be around four or five years old, although it's hard to tell since he either doesn't understand or refuses to answer when we ask him his age. He just sits curled up in his room and glares at everybody who comes in. The only person he reacts to is the emperor himself; he seems wary but curious in his Imperial Majestys' presence. Only a mother was found in the clearing where he was discovered; is it possible even monsters and animals suffer from Marital Imbalance Syndrome, and the resulting needs and emotional weaknesses? If so, this wretched creature has been granted a cure worth its weight in marble. Could there be any presence more commanding, more paternal, than the emperor himself?_
> 
>  
> 
> _"His Majesty seems determined to raise the beast in a grander, more Deluxian tradition than its ancestors. He has already been successful in encouraging him to transform to his humanoid shape and retain it. In time, who know? Deluxe may celebrate the day his Imperial Majesty stole the boy away from the wild misery of his nest and brought him under the Empire's benevolent hand.."_
> 
>  
> 
> \-- Musings from the desk of the Deluxian Empire's lead (and only) expert of pathological psychology.

 The ambassador from Brightwater arrives early the next afternoon.  She’s a woman who looks like she might be in her fifties, wearing a very neat red dress and a grey wool cloak.  She reminds Mike of Julie--although maybe that's just because of her expression of mild, unreadable amusement and the crisp perfection of the bow she gives Chuck.  Her hair is bright, light silver, cut short.  Her entourage is small, but all of them look really neat, all wearing the same shade of red with those grey, wool cloaks over the top. 

"The Crown of the Purified Spring extends their compliments and their good will,” the ambassador says, and Mike immediately resolves not to talk to this lady unless he absolutely has to.  There’s no way he wouldn’t totally embarrass himself.  “Their majesty has been following your rule with interest.”

“And I theirs,” says Chuck, which is a downright lie and Mike freakin’ knows it.  Chuck inclines his head politely, stepping aside to open the way to the castle.  “—Please.”

They make polite conversation about the castle, its age and the history behind it as they lead the way inside.  Mike makes out bits and pieces of it, but he might as well be listening in on a foreign language for all the good it does him.  He can’t tell if Chuck took his advice to give  Brightwater a chance or not; everything he says sounds uniformly polite, and just about like everything he says to everybody else.  Julie is further back in the group, and Mike can’t look back to check if she’s hearing anything—he keeps his eyes ahead, on his best behavior.  

“Rooms have been prepared for you in the central tower, on the 60th floor,” Chuck is saying, somewhere ahead—and that one Mike does get, if only because he heard a lot of people in Deluxe slipping subtle brags into everything they said.  That’s definitely showing off— _look at me, I have the oldest kingdom, the biggest castle._

“I’m sure the view will be marvelous,” says the ambassador politely.  Okay, so…that’s like “okay cool, good for you” but for diplomats.  She’s not here to be bragged at, but she’s not gonna be rude either.

Somebody hurries up before Chuck can answer that one, bowing to the ambassador, then again, deeper, to the king.  “Dinner is prepared in the great hall, sire,” they murmur, and smile at the ambassador.  “Welcome to the capitol, my lady.”

That’s not 100% standard, and the ambassador definitely looks shocked for the skin of a second before she smiles graciously back and nods politely.  “Thank you for your hospitality.”

The server bows again and hurries away.  Lord Vanquisher watches them go, smiling slightly, and then blinks.  “Well then,” he says, and sweeps ahead a little, leading the way.  “Shall we?”

The group gets a little bit muddled as they head toward the court hall; people are hurrying everywhere all of a sudden, offering to take cloaks and packs, leading horses away, directing people to their seats.  There are people from around town filtering in, taking places at the long tables in the hall.  Mike sees Texas waving at him and waves back, grinning like he doesn’t know he’s being beckoned over.  He can’t—if he goes over there and talks to Texas, but not to the others, what if they figure he’s made his choice?  There’s too much going on right now, Mike—can’t handle that.  He’s not going to make a choice right now, not while he’s got so much to handle already. 

He turns away from Texas, looking desperately for something else to do on the other side of the room, and then yelps and backpedals sharply.  Chuck is standing about two inches from him, looking…stern, and stressed. 

“Uh!” Mike says, and then clears his throat and stands at attention.  “Sire!  Excuse me.”

“No,” says the king, “Hold a moment.  I needed to speak to you.”

Oh.   “Yes, sir?” says Mike, baffled.  “—I mean—sire?”

"Arrangements have changed,” says Lord Vanquisher.  “You will join me at the high table.  A place is being set for you.”

Mike opens his mouth to go “you _what?_ ”—closes it again, swallowing the words.  He can imagine how Julie would look at him if she heard he’d blurted something out and messed this up. 

Keeping his mouth shut gets considerably harder when he glances over at the high table and sees the place that’s being set. 

“…At…your side, my king?” he says, a little weakly.  Geez, that’s quite a seating change.  It’s the left side, sure, but it’s still a huge deal. 

“You are a knight, proven loyal,” says Lord Vanquisher, still in that weird, stern tone of voice.  “And honored by the kingdom.  Is there a place more fitting?” 

 _How about down at the dining tables with the other knights?_   Mike doesn’t say.  That’s not—he’s been favored by a king before.  You don’t question, you don’t argue.  “As your majesty says,” he says, and bows with all the grace he can manage.  “The honor is all mine.” 

Chuck glances around, almost defiant, like he’s expecting somebody to chide him for being inappropriate.  But the Duke’s…not there.

…Huh. 

“…The Duke’s not gonna like it,” Mike says very quietly, and knows he’s hit the nail on the head when Chuck’s chin rises, his lips thin. 

“The Duke does not control the privilege I award my subjects,” he says, and there’s an edge of almost nervous defiance in the way he glares at Mike. 

Okay, so…Mike is sitting at the high table because Chuck and the Duke are having a fight.  There are worse reasons to be up there, especially considering it’s going to honk the Duke off something  _awful_ to have to share the table with a common  _knight_. 

The fact that they’re almost definitely fighting over Mike, that Chuck’s idea of a middle finger in the Duke’s direction is to put Mike at his left hand, makes Mike kind of want to bow, kind of want to kiss him, kind of want to press up against him and rub his face into Chuck’s neck.  He only does the first one, though.  Another bow, very sharp and low.  “Of course, your majesty,” he says. 

“Yes, well.”  Lord Vanquisher purses his lips for a second, and he looks so annoyed it's almost enough to make Mike laugh.  "Very good.  Take your place."

"Yes, my king," says Mike respectfully, and hurries off to follow orders before Chuck can see the dumb grin on his face.  

On one hand, there aren’t many nobles in the kingdom, it turns out.  There are other knights at the high table, including the other Burners.  But on the other, none of those guys are sitting right next to the king.  Mike does his best to just concentrate on eating his food neatly, and pretending he doesn’t see the ambassador’s occasional curious glances in his direction. 

By the end of the meal she’s stopped glancing over, mostly because she seems to be genuinely enjoying her conversation--politics of kingdom sovereignty in the post-fall era, or something like that.  Chuck seems to have forgotten to be distant and dignified in favor of asking a million politely eager questions. 

The Duke would probably say it shows weakness to ask about all this stuff, but if the interested, impressed look on the ambassador's face is anything to go by, Chuck's doing okay for himself.  Mike grins down at his dessert, listening.  Even better, the Duke is sitting between them, picking sourly at his food and not participating at all.  The ambassador has tried to make a polite aside to him once or twice, and the Duke kind of sniffed at her and went back to eating.  He looks _ticked._

__

Something touches Mike’s shoulder.  He glances over and sees…a bird, folded out of a napkin.  There’s a spell-form sketched neatly onto each of its wings, and it cocks its head at him and hops a little closer.  As Mike reaches up inconspicuously to pluck it off his shoulder, it shivers and unfolds.  There’s a drawing on it, in Dutch’s familiar, angular style; the Duke, sitting hunched up in his seat and pouting, arms crossed sulkily.  Underneath him, Dutch has scribbled the words _“why isn’t anybody paying attention to me??? :( :( :(“_.  Mike glances down the table and sees Dutch grinning at him—awkward or not, Mike has to smile back.  It feels good.  He feels pretty dang good.

“If I may, sire?” says the ambassador.  By the pitch of her voice, she means to be heard—conversations falter, heads turn.  “A toast.”

Just for a second Mike sees the king go still, surprised; then he inclines his head politely.  “Of course.”

The ambassador stands, picks up her freshly-refilled cup.  “For the futures of our two great kingdoms,” she says, and raises her cup.  “…To peace.”

“To peace,” says Lord Vanquisher, and there’s a note of raw honesty under the coolness of his voice.  Just the faintest hint of a fervent tremor to the words. “Peace,” Mike echoes, in a steady chorus with the rest of the hall, and raises his cup to take a drink.

Something flashes blue out of the corner of his eye.  Mike pauses for just a second, and then jumps as a hand catches his arm, stopping him before he can drink.  The king is staring at him, eyes burning through his falling hair, and a rune on the back of his wrist is flaring bright, spitting blue.

“Stop,” he says, very clearly.  

There’s magic threaded through the word—or maybe it’s just the tone he uses, almost gentle but unquestionable.   Everybody stops, cups half-raised to their lips.  Chuck turns back to Mike.  “Sir,” he says, quiet and very polite, with a strange, brittle edge to his voice.  “I would see that cup.”

“Oh, uh.”  Mike blinks, then lowers his hand and lets Chuck take the cup from him.  People are watching them—they can’t have heard what Chuck said, but they can see that something is up.  The ambassador has stopped short of drinking; the Duke is watching from his seat on her other side, eyes narrowed over his glasses. 

Chuck twists his hand and then lays it over the mouth of the cup—the rune on the back of his wrist burns so bright it hurts Mike’s eyes.  Chuck’s eyes flick up to Mike’s face again.

“…Sire?” says Mike, uncertain.  Lord Vanquisher doesn’t answer.  He looks back down at the cup, puts it down very carefully on the table.  Picks up his own cup and puts a hand over it.  The rune on his wrist flashes.

Chuck’s hands are trembling.   It’s so faint Mike can barely see it, but he knows he’s not mistaken.  The king raises a hand, flicks his wrist with a sharp, soft command, and the Duke’s cup flies out of his hand and down the table, landing neatly in Chuck’s hand.  He presses his hand over that one too—another flash. 

“Your majesty, is there a problem?” says the ambassador.  The Duke sat up a lot straighter when his cup flashed; his mouth is a thin, angry line. 

“There may be,” Chuck says, still in that strange, soft voice. “May I see your drink, please.”

 “Of…of course.”  The ambassador hands her drink over.  Everybody is watching now, whispers bouncing around the silent room— _poison?  He said--_  The king presses a hand over the top of her drink--nothing.  Tries again, again, whispers something that sends a shiver up Mike’s spine--nothing.

Lord Vanquisher breathes out slowly, and lowers the cup to the table. 

"Sir Smiling Dragon," he says evenly.  "Take the ambassador into custody."

The woman's mouth drops open.  Mike's heart double-beats painfully, the shock shoots down his spine.  His legs straighten on automatic, moving to follow his orders even as he stares.  "S-sire?"

"Sir Smiling Dragon's drink is poisoned," says Lord Vanquisher.  He puts the ambassador's cup down, almost delicately.  "As is mine, and my advisor's."  

"Your majesty, I would never even  _think_ to--"  The ambassador throws a brief, frightened glance at Mike--he stares back at her, hesitating, heart pounding.  "Are you certain you detected--?"

“You may think me inexperienced,” Lord Vanquisher says, and stands up.  “—Too young to be king, maybe, but don’t insult me by implying I’m any less than a competent mage.”  He straightens his spine, and there’s a look in his eyes that’s way too reminiscent of the day Mike saw him breathe fire.  A quiet kind of terrified fury, turning him cold.  Light is creeping along his scars, runes Mike doesn’t know lighting up against his skin.  "Sir Chilton, I gave you an  _order."_

“Your majesty,” says the ambassador, “I…beg your pardon, but—” 

"Oh, sure you do _,_ " sneers the Duke, and his woman-at-arms appears behind the ambassador with startling speed, reaching out and grabbing the woman's arm.  "You can sit back down,  _Sir_ Chilton.  We'll take care of this.."

"Sire," Julie says sharply. The court is murmuring, rustling whispers spreading through the crowd like a breeze through a forest.  The ambassador’s entourage is on their feet, affronted and scared.  "Please.  Consider handling this diplomatically.  Brightwater is--"

 “This kingdom cannot afford to let invaders live,” says Chuck distantly, and turns away from her, toward the ambassador.  The war-runes on his forearms are brightening, crawling with light.  “If you thought me  _gullible_ enough to eat and drink without _—_ ”

“Your majesty, we have no reason to wish you ill,” says the ambassador, and there’s a desperate edge to her voice now.  The Duke's woman-at-arms has a hold of her wrists, pulling them behind her back.  Mike is still standing—his hand is on his sword, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do but he has to do  _something—_

Sudden and sharp, Lord Vanquisher’s eyes dart to Mike.  Mike goes still, strangely frozen; that look is like a stab in the chest, direct and uncompromising.  Chuck stares at him, and Mike stares back.  Manages finally, minutely, to shake his head.

Slowly, Chuck lowers his hands.

"...Will you testify under a truth spell?"  he says, and Mike can hear him force his voice steady.  The ambassador's eyes widen, and then she nods eagerly, some of the frightened tension easing out of her shoulders.  

“Of course,” she says.  “Whatever proof you require, your majesty.”

"You understand I cannot take this matter lightly."

“Please, investigate as deeply as you will,” the woman says, and Mike can’t see a lie in her eyes.  “You will only find more proof that Brightwater would never attempt a betrayal such as this.”

Lord Vanquisher nods, very slow, utterly controlled.  "Sir Darkslayer," he says.  "Sir Wildcat.  Take our guests into protective custody.  They are not to be harmed under any circumstances."

"As you say, sire," says Ruby, and gives the ambassador a businesslike bow.  "Ma'am, with me, if you would."

"O-of course."  The ambassador casts a slightly frightened glance down the high table; Mike catches her eye and gives her a nod, his most reassuring smile.  Julie rests a hand on the woman’s shoulder, guiding more than pulling.  The ambassador glances back at her, then squares her shoulders and raises her head proudly.  "...Brightwater will not forget your mercy and your prudence, Lord Vanquisher," she says, and she still sounds scared, but some of the dignified smoothness has returned to her voice.  "I will await a visit from the magistrate of your choosing."

The king inclines his head again, and then turns to the hall.  "I know this is unexpected," he says clearly.  He still looks calm, almost dream-like.  "Everyone please follow Sir Ericsson through to the central tower.  You will all remain here for the night, until this is settled."

A few people mutter and murmur, frowning--between those unhappy faces, though, Mike sees people nodding.  Worried and understanding.  The Duke’s expression is thunderous; there are sparks of magic flickering around his hands and the rims of his glasses. 

“Accommodations will be made,” says Chuck colorlessly, and steps back, lowering his voice.  “…Sir Manticore, collect the cups please.  Separate, and un-altered.  I suspect I know the contents already, but there may be more to find.  Sir Lone Star, please accompany our guests to the tenth floor.  Sir Smiling Dragon—”

For the first time, he hesitates.  Mike waits, standing at attention, barely breathing; Chuck stares at him for a long, long second, and then looks away.  “…An attempt has been made on your life,” he says.  “Please return to your quarters.”

“Yes…your majesty.”  Mike hesitates, agonizing, and then bursts out, “—Are you—?”

“That will be all,” says Lord Vanquisher, and turns on his heel, striding toward the door.  The Duke immediately follows, woman-at-arms dogging his footsteps like a shadow, and in a second they’re gone. 

People are standing up, following Thurman and Texas, heading for another door at the back of the room.  Mike stands frozen-still as the crowd moves past him, staring after Lord Vanquisher and the Duke.   There’s a certainty stewing in his mind.  A quiet, furious kind of realization. 

He has his orders.  He swore to follow orders, he has to follow orders, but…

By the time Mike catches up with the king and his advisor, they've made it to the royal quarters.  The door is still ajar--behind it, a familiar voice is yelling.  " _—why you act like you want my advice and then_ ignore  _it, you_ stupid  _boy!  I’m here to keep you_ alive  _and you seem determined—_ "

"... _law, Duke,_ " Chuck says, quiet enough Mike can't make out half the words.  " _...if--by daybreak.  Don't tell me you wouldn't."_

A  _bang,_ metal on wood.  "Fine!" the Duke snaps.  "I'm sure we'll all fondly remember Lord Vanquisher's ‘ _mercy and prudence’_  when Brightwater takes the capitol!"

“You wanted me to kill an _ambassador_!” Chuck says, louder now. “Without a trial, without an _investigation,_ even—you’re asking me to go to war _,_ Duke!”

“I’m not _asking,_ ” the Duke snaps.

Silence.  Mike stops, paralyzed, a few feet from the door.  Listening so hard his ears ache.  Chuck is saying something, but it’s so quiet, all Mike can hear is the Duke’s response, affronted.  “I beg your pardon—?!”

“I said,”  says Chuck, and his voice rises to a breaking yell, strangled.  “Get _out!_ ”

The Duke comes striding out of the king's rooms, face twisted and red with fury, and slams the door behind him so hard the floor shakes.  He stops at the sight of Mike, cane rising, lightning crackling around it--then he stops when he sees who it is, glaring.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, with a curl to his lip that makes Mike want to snarl.  “What do you want, Chilton?  I have business to attend to.”

“What, like  _taking care of_ that lady from Brightwater?” Mike bares his teeth, but it’s not a smile.  “He's not gonna let you pull that trick again.”

"They attempted  _murder!_ " The Duke snarls, "In our court!"   One of his hands swipes through the air--the silence spell Chuck used once to talk to Mike in private.  The air goes thick and muffled around them--Mike's too furious to care.

"You really think anybody's gonna buy that?!"  He can feel his fangs getting sharper, his breath rasping in his throat.  He's so  _angry_.  "You think you’re really gonna lie your way out of this one?  You’ve been trying to get me killed for weeks.”

“You might wanna mind who you  _run your mouth off at,_ boy,” The Duke says, rough and dangerous.  Mike isn’t listening, doesn’t care.

“You wanted me gone but you couldn't get the king to throw me out,” he says, and it almost feels good to say the words, to finally  _say_ it.  “That's why you sent us out after those hunters without any backup!  You told them how we fight, you set us up!"

"I won't stand here and be  _slandered,_ " the Duke hisses, and slams his cane against the ground with a flash like a bolt of lightning.  Mike flinches, half-draws his sword before he can think about it.  The Duke laughs, a mean bark of a laugh.

"...You didn't plan for him coming after us, did you?" Mike says, ragged and half-growling.  "I bet you loved it when Brightwater asked to be allies.  You finally had somebody to frame, for when you tried to get me outta the way for good."

The Duke's lip curls.  "You have  _no proof,_ " he says.  

"If I tell him you admitted--"

"Oh, you've told him more than enough," says the Duke. 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

The Duke doesn’t answer, just sneers at him for a second.  Then, slowly, his expression shifts.  Something cunning and self-satisfied, a nasty smirk.   

"Maybe you  _should_ go tell him," he says, and shoves past Mike.  There's an edge to his voice, a cruel kind of amusement.  "I've tried keepin' his secrets, but he deserves you right now,  _Chilton._   A- _go wild."_

"I will!"  Mike growls at his retreating shape, backing away toward the door to Chuck’s rooms.  “I’m gonna—yeah!  I will!”

The Duke is already gone.  Mike bares his teeth and snarls at the place where the man used to be, and then turns and hurries forward, pushing through the door the Duke just slammed.

It’s dark inside—no fire lit, no lights on.  The dim glow of the city shines up through the huge windows, throwing pools of silvery light onto the walls and ceiling.   

 "Your majesty?"  Mike hurries forward into the shadowy room, staring around.  "...Chuck?"

Dimly, he sees a shadow shift against the window.  A head just barely turning back toward him.  

"What are you doing here?" says Lord Vanquisher softly, with perfect, brittle clarity. 

"Sire, I need to talk to you!” Mike persists, and he’s so stupid, so distracted, he doesn’t notice the way Chuck is just standing still, head down and shoulders hunched.  The trembling tension in his entire body.  “It’s important, I just talked to the—!"

"I need you to go," says Chuck, and there's a bright, hard shudder in his voice.  "Go, Mike, right now.  I--" he twitches, voice cracking a little.  "I can't--"

"...Sire?"  Mike backs up a little, finally noticing something's up—too little, too late.  He hesitates, then tries, "...Your majesty, are you okay?"

"I almost didn’t notice," Chuck says, so sudden and loud Mike jumps.  For a second Chuck just stands, mouthing silently, then he snaps abruptly back into motion, shaking his head, pacing frantically across the room.  His breathing is coming too fast and too hard, like he just ran a race.  "If I hadn't—if I didn't— _hh_ —!"  He drags his hands through his hair, tugs his crown off and tosses it down on the desk.  "You would've died, I couldn't even have healed you, you would be  _dead_ —"

"But I'm not!"  Mike hurries after him, more alarmed by the second.  "Hey!  Wait,  _listen._   You caught it, it’s okay!  Look, do you need--"

"I need you to  _go!_ " Chuck says, half-yelling, cracking with frustration, "I didn't--you don't need to see--!"  He has to stop and catch his breath after a couple of words, wheezing.  He's clutching at his chest, dragging in huge, frantic breaths between words.  "I thought it was—I was gonna let them come in here and, and we're not even safe here, we should be  _safe_  here, we would have been at war, we could—we could go to war again, Mike, I can't, I can't, I  _can't_ —!"

Mike finally catches his arm—Chuck sucks in air in a deep, shaking gasp and stares at Mike like they're strangers, eyes wild. 

" _Chuck_ ," Mike says, loud and clear. 

Chuck presses a hand to his chest and wheezes uncontrollably, struggling to steady himself, failing.  He looks...it looks...familiar.  Like a new soldier on the battlefield for the first time, so sad and angry and scared he's drowning in it.  Mike's talked new cadets through attacks like this before--but there's no battlefield here.  And Chuck's no green recruit, he's a king.  A former soldier, even.  

...But here he is anyway, falling to pieces like a boy at his first skirmish. 

Mike reaches out, baffled, slides his hands up Chuck’s arms and squeezes both shoulders.  For a second Chuck stiffens, but then he shudders again and leans into it, just barely.  Mike dares to step closer, reaches out and wraps an arm carefully around his shoulders; Chuck crumples down over him and presses his face into Mike's hair, taking shaky breaths. 

"Sorry," he's already saying, forcing the word out on gasping breaths.   "Sorry, sorry—I don’t want to, I can’t, but—if, if she tried to kill, if they tried to— _hhh_ —!"  One of his hands finds the back of Mike’s neck, the curve of his skull, pulling him even closer, trembling.  “… _I’m gonna be just like him,_ ” he mumbles, hoarse with dread.  “A war-king, they’re all gonna die, for _me—_ ”

“We’re soldiers,” Mike says.  “That’s what—we knew that could happen when we swore our steel to you, it’s okay.  And you’re not like—like—like who?”

“You _know_ who!”  Chuck says, so shrilly upset it hurts Mike’s ears.  For a second he almost seemed to calm down, but now he’s getting worse again, breathing harder and deeper and faster.  Mike squeezes him, confused and kind of terrified, and hears his king catch an awful, dry sob in his chest. 

“…You’re nothing like Mad Dog,” he says, and knows he guessed right when he feels Chuck shudder all over.  His breathing slows, the electrified tension in his body fades a little.  Mike rubs a hand roughly up and down his back, bears his weight as he slumps.  “You’re _not,_ dude.  You’re…you’re a good king.  Even if you had to go to war, you wouldn’t be like him, okay?  You’d only fight if you had to, you wouldn’t chain up kids and make them fight for you, you wouldn’t collar a dragon to sic on people—”

“No,” says Chuck bleakly.  His fingers are still buried in the roots of Mike’s hair.  “…People would— _hh,_ they’d still _die_ , though.  They’d march out there just because I asked them to, Mike.  That’s _worse._   And, and my…” he stops for a second, hesitating, like he’s agonizing over something.  When he pulls back, far enough to see Mike’s face, Mike’s weirdly surprised to see that his cheeks are dry. 

“I wouldn’t need to collar my dragon,” he says, small and broken, and the hand on the back of Mike’s neck comes to his cheek instead, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw.  “…He’d be happy, he’d be _proud._ To march out there and die for me.”

Mike opens his mouth and...stops.  His heart is suddenly pounding; he lets go, but it's not enough.  He shakes off Chuck’s grip on him and takes a step back—then another one, opening the space up between them.  It’s not enough, he can’t catch his breath.  " _What_?"

"Mike," starts Lord Vanquisher-- _dragon-slayer--_ he looks at Mike like he's desperate, like he’s trying to understand, like he  _knows._ He knows.  "You don't have to be...scared, I don't know, ashamed, whatever kept you from telling me--"

"There's nothing to tell you!"  Mike says, too loud and sharp.  He should--reach for his sword, he should beg forgiveness, he should admit it, he should deny it— He has to get out of here. "—I have to go--I need to--the Burners, I need to, uh--"

"Oh!"  The king hesitates a second.  His breathing is still shaky, his hands are trembling.  Mike could take him down.  He doesn't want to.  He wants--he wants--  He kind of wants to cry, actually.  "Well, if...I mean, we need to  _talk_  about this, Mike, but uh...if you come right back--"

"Yeah, yes, totally, yes," Mike says-- _lies_ \--and backs away.  "Goodbye."

"Mike?"

"Excuse me, sire."  Mike says, and runs.

—

He’s not a dragon.

Lord Vanquisher isn’t a _dragon_ , he never was, Mike wanted him to be so badly he tricked himself into believing it, and—and if he can collar the Duke, the guy he thinks of as some kind of—as his—if he can do that, he’ll do it to Mike.  This is all wrong, it wasn’t supposed to  _be_ this way!

Mike has to leave.  He's probably got minutes, at most, before the king gets his guards together and comes for them, and if the entire militia shows up to fight...

Mike doesn't know if he could fight them.  Doesn't know if he could hurt Ch--Lord Vanquisher, even now, even  _now,_ god.  He's gotta run.

The other Burners are all in the room again when he gets there, and by the way they all look up they were probably talking about him again.  Mike doesn’t—he can’t think about that right now, he can’t.  He drops down on his knees by his pack instead, starts shoving things into it. 

“Mike?” Dutch sounds worried.  “You okay?  Holy crap, what happened?”

“The king,” Mike says, and chokes, doesn’t know what to say.  “He found out—something, he heard, about me, I gotta go.”

“What do you mean, he found something out?” Julie says sharply.  “Mike, wait.  Calm down, _talk_ to me.  Why do you have to go?”  She pauses, and then a hand grabs Mike’s shoulder, squeezing insistently.  “…Did he threaten you?  Did he say he would hurt you?”

“Yeah—I mean, did he seem mad?” Dutch says, and Mike groans and pulls away from Julie’s hand, throwing stuff into his pack.  “Mike, seriously.  Did he sound like he was ticked off?”

“He—no, but—”

“Then he ain’t, which means whatever he found out about, he’s not worried.”  Texas shrugs.  “Tiny, chill out about this for like a Texas minute.  There’s nothin’ he could figure out that means you gotta ditch him.  Skinny’s cool, he’s chill.”

“I kept a secret,” Mike says, frustrated—he can’t _tell_ them, they have no idea how bad it really is.  “A big secret, he could—arrest me for it, if he wanted, he could…”  _Collar me, lock me up, take you away from me._ He chokes on the words, shakes his head and goes back to packing.  "It's complicated.  I...I messed up, Jules."

"Did you hit on him again?"  Texas says, apparently somewhere between impressed and frustrated.  "Tiny, you gotta rein it in!  He's totally gonna think you're easy."

Mike sputters, distracted from his angst for a second by a stab of humiliation—Julie and Dutch both laugh. 

"I'm, he,  _no_ ," Mike says, and there's a flush of pink spreading across his cheeks, faint but distinct.  "I didn't!"  And maybe the others can tell he's not laughing, can see the sick unhappiness growing in his gut, because their laughter dies off a little.  Like he'd ever try something that dumb again, now that Chuck knows—now that  _Lord Vanquisher_  knows what he is.  Mike should never have tried, he was so stupid to even try.

"Mike?"  Dutch is watching him, head a little on one side, worried.  "You okay, man?"

"You should give him one of your fancy rocks," Texas says abruptly.

Everybody stops what they were doing, and turn to look at Texas.  Mike stares, totally blindsided; Texas shrugs at him.  "You said you gave 'em to us because you thought we were cool, right?" he says.  "You wanna show him he's cool, like, you're both cool, just give him a rock.  Even though he's a nerd.  I mean, he is still pretty cool."

"Thanks Texas," says Julie sardonically.  "Good talk."  And then, to Mike as Texas throws his hands up and goes back to his bicep curls, "—look, if—Mike?"

"...Mm?"  Mike is staring off into the distance, frowning faintly, deep in thought. Slowly, he lets go of his pack.  Sets it back on the floor and settles back on his heels.

" _Mike_."

"Uh—yeah.  Yeah, I'm listenin'."  Mike glances up at her.  “Sorry, uh…what?”

“What are you thinking?” Julie says sharply.  “What are you going to do?  Mike, let us help you, _talk_ to us—"

"I'm not gonna do anything," Mike says.  His hands are kind of shaking.  He smiles, and it feels almost normal.  “It’s—no, I think…I think it’s gonna be okay.  Sorry.  It’s cool.”

“No, it’s not!”  Julie grabs his arm.  “Look.  Don’t…don’t freak out about this, but—” she glances back at the others.  “…we know.”

The fear that just started to fade slams back into him like an avalanche.  Mike freezes in place, every muscle locking like he's been paralyzed.  "Know...what?" he says, but he barely hears his own voice over the roaring in his ears.  His heart is suddenly pounding so hard it hurts, hammering against his ribs.   _No no no no, not again, not them too—_

"I thought we weren't gonna  _tell_ him," Texas says, frowning.  "Look, Tiny--"

"Know  _what?!_ "

The others are all looking at each other, expressions Mike can't read.  He should have guessed.  He should have  _known,_  there's no way the king wouldn't have told them as soon as he figured it out--and of course they were trying to get him to stay.  Of course they told him they—liked him, they wanted him, it was all a lie.  They  _want_ him to stay, they want the Vanquisher to collar him so they can keep using his stones--he trusted them like he trusted Kane, he loved them and it's always the same, over and over again, he's so  _stupid_ \--

"Mike?"  Julie reaches out for his shoulder and Mike jerks back and away, breathing hard.  He wants to reach out and rip the stone off her necklace, he wants to scream.  "Mike, listen, it's okay--"

"We know he hurt you to make these!" Dutch cuts over her.  Mike jerks around to stare at him instead--Dutch is holding up his ring.  The stone with Mike’s wings tied up inside.  "Kane found some kinda...curse, that pulls magic outta people, right?"

"Dutch," says Julie--Dutch keeps talking.

"We figured you didn't want to talk to us about it, is all.” He smiles, kind of shakily.  

 Some of the awful, boiling panic settles.  Mike takes a deep breath, then another one, and this time it feels like it actually fills his lungs.  "Oh," he says, more a gasp than a word.  "Uh..."

" _Dutch_ ," says Julie.

"I know you don't like talkin' about your dad like this, Julie," says Dutch, and glances over at her.  "...But we gotta do what's best.  For  _Mike."_

Julie's lips go thin, but then her eyes dart to Mike's face and she relaxes again.  "I know," she says slowly.  "...I know.  You're right."

“Oh, okay,” says Texas.  “Yeah.  That thing.”

“Which is why it was a _bad idea,_ ” Julie says pointedly, with a glance at Texas, “—to tell you to make another one.”

"I'm okay," Mike says.  "No, I mean, I don’t like talkin’ about…Kane, and the stuff he…  I’m good, though!"  

He tries another smile, and thank god, they seem to buy it.  Texas is frowning at him, Dutch and Julie are looking at each other with their eyes narrowed.  

 “…Okay,” says Dutch finally.  “Well…come talk to us, okay?  If you start to—if you wanna, y’know.  Do anything drastic.”

“Sure, yeah,” says Mike.  “I’m, uh…I’m gonna go to bed.  Long night.”

“Cool,” says Texas. “But, are we gonna like… _talk_ about stuff, or—?”

“Not tonight,” says Mike firmly.  “Okay?  Just—back pocket, dude.  We can…we can talk tomorrow.”

The other Burners trade looks, but if any of them want to argue, they restrain the impulse.  Mike heads into his room, and locks the door behind him.

He doesn’t go to bed.  He can’t, not right now.  He sits on his bed and…thinks.

...His Burners don't know.  The king could tell them, could tell all of them, if he wanted, but he didn't come bursting in and spill Mike's secrets in front of everybody.  He knows Mike doesn't want people to know, and he's honoring that, for some reason.

And--it's  _Chuck._   It's his king, Mike owes him his life.  Maybe if he gives everything he has left, maybe if he lets Chuck have him...maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.  Maybe he'd still be kind, maybe he'd keep Mike's secret, maybe he'd take Mike as a dragon, even if he wouldn't take him as a human.  There's nobody else's collar Mike would rather wear.  

Everything he has left...

Mike takes a deep breath and presses a hand to his chest, feeling the constant, heavy ache.  The pit, the hole in his chest.  There's something left in there.  He has more he can give.  The voices outside have gone quiet, and the light that was spilling dimly under his door has gone out.  If he’s going to do it, now’s the time.

It's been a long time, but the motion feels terribly familiar as he kneels down on the floor and unbuckles his sword, laying it to the side next to him with meticulous care.  There's a nervous flutter in his stomach, something verging on dread, but it doesn't matter.  He's made up his mind.  Mike rolls his shoulders, feeling the tense muscles that used to be powerful wings.  Blinks in the dark with half-blind, human eyes.  Breathes cool, damp air past the doused spark in the pit of his gut.  Reminds himself of what he’s missing.  Makes sure of what he’s willing to give up.

And then he thinks about his king.  About Lord Vanquisher, a boy barely out of his teens, a general, a leader.  A smart guy who wants to sit in a library and read about magic, who wants to learn how to do his own work, who gets up before the sun to practice sword drills and stays up until long past midnight to read about ancient history and half-forgotten spells.  Who knows Mike is a dragon and kept his secret for him, who’s letting Mike come back to him instead of sending soldiers or spells and forcing him.  Who’s giving him a  _choice._

Mike reaches into himself, and thinks about Chuck's flashing eyes and deft hands, the way he sits straight on the throne, the way he takes so much onto his shoulders.  He can't keep doing things the way he has been, forcing himself to stay so strong on the outside and then breaking down behind closed doors.  He's hurting himself like this, he's not strong enough to rule without anybody to help him, but Mike is here  and he has strength to spare. Mike can  _help_ him.  Mike could be his, and make him strong--

Something bright and sharp and shining catches in his chest.  Mike goes still, panting.  The piece of himself he's found tugs and twists, sharp and sickening like a fang coming loose.  It hurts, and he can't, but he has to—

Something comes tearing and burning out of his core, coalescing in his hands, coming together outside of him.  Light shatters his ribs, rips through his lungs, lights up his heart, and then breaks free.  There’s a new piece of him, outside of him, snapping together in his hands.  A pulse in his palm.  Faint throb, like it was his heart he tore out, beating in his hands.  He wishes he had, it would hurt less, it would be so much better than this.  Anything would be better than this.

Mike crumples down, cradling the stone next to his chest, struggling to breathe.  For an endless, liquid stretch of time, he's helpless, breathless, a stupid child making stupid mistakes.  Tearing his soul out, for  _what—_ he has to put it back—

When Mike took the first stone, as a kid, he’d cried.  He’d struggled, trying to put it back in, but Kane had knelt down next to him and held out an open hand, talking to him low and smooth and comforting, like a  _father._ Coaxing it out of Mike’s hands, telling him he did so well, that he’d feel better in a little while, just a little while. 

But this isn’t for Kane, and Mike’s not a kid anymore.  This was for Lord Vanquisher, for Chuck, for his  _king._   Mike clenches his hand around the hot, restless flutter in his palm, and then lets his fist curl open, one finger at a time. 

The stone is perfect, flawless and fathomless as the ocean, pure as a summer sky.  Mike has to catch his breath at the sight of it, feels the pang of longing in his chest again where he still hurts.  The hole in him aches to be filled again, to take the power back in.  He breathes, and breathes, and closes his hand again. 

"... _I want him to be strong,_  " he mumbles into his hands, and forces another breath into his throbbing lungs.  "I want him to...I want him... "

He wakes up on the floor.  The vicious burn of pain in his core has died a little, but he still feels weak as a child.  His face is tacky with drying sweat.  Mike groans, long and low, and pushes himself slowly up, rubbing his face.

He's got to give this.  Give this to his king.  He's gotta get up and do his job, has to support his king.

Mike gets to his knees, gets on his feet.  Retches and wheezes and clutches at his chest, his stomach.  Starts walking.

The king is in his room, working, when Mike gets there.  Mike can tell, can feel him.  Magic in the air, like ozone.  Mike has to stop and rest his forehead against the door when he reaches it.  His shirt is too thin, soaked with sweat, and he’s shaking from the cold.  His head is throbbing in sympathy with his lungs, his heart, his stomach.  He's still so weak; he pulls back a fist, lets it thump against the door.  Again.  Again. 

Lord Vanquisher opens on the fourth knock.  He's got his hair up, gloves on, a pair of thick glass lenses over his eyes.  "I have made it abundantly clear I do not wish to be—” he starts, annoyed, and then “What the…?” high and startled, and then “Holy crap—Mike?  Are you okay?!  I was worried, I thought—I’m glad you came back, I just, what the _hell—?_ "

" _Hey_ ," says Mike, and kind of staggers into the room.  His hand is still clenched around the stone, the only solid thing about him.  “This is…for you.  I…for you.  Here.”  He forces his fingers to uncurl, one at a time, and his head gives a fresh, dizzy throb of nausea as his hand opens, offering the sky-blue stone.  Lord Vanquisher draws in a very sharp, soft little breath.

“What  _is_ that?” he asks again, but he sounds almost wondering this time.  He reaches out cautiously—Mike groans as the stone is taken away, stumbles and heaves for air through lungs that barely feel strong enough to breathe.  “Mike—what  _happened,_ are you okay?  Where did you get this?”

“Just, I just,” he has the lies in the back of his mind, but they’re so hard to focus on right now.  “Found, I made, I got them…somewhere.  It’s yours.”

“You made…?”  the king starts, and then he looks down at the stone in his hand and just goes still.  Just stops dead, staring at it.  Holds it up, turns it in front of the light.  His eyes go all round behind his hair.

“Mike,” he says.  “I  _can’t_  take this.”

Mike’s whole body does something dizzy and awful.  It would be bad enough if he wasn’tstaggering and barely upright, but he is, and he feels his legs wobble underneath him.  He _has_ to take it, It’s everything Mike’s got left.  “Wh,” he starts, “No, sire, please…”

“You gotta take it back,” says the king, and reaches out unerringly, ignoring the way Mike shudders and sways back, to press a hand to the place in the middle of Mike’s chest.  Even the light press of his hand  _aches._ Mike groans out loud, shakes all over as skin and bone and muscle down to the very core of him scream out in protest. 

“Ow,” Mike gasps, because he’s  _breathless_ with it, because ripping that stone out of himself tore at his insides and they’re still raw and shattered.  The king’s expression twists into fear instead, worry.

“Sit down,” he says again.  “Sit down before you falldown, Mike, god.  Stay there.”

Mike is dizzily aware there’s a problem here, that Lord Vanquisher’s not happy and he probably messed up.  He stays there, though, just breathing.  The king still has the stone in his hand and Mike’s trying really hard to stay conscious, so it’s not like he could leave if he wanted to.  He doesn’t want to.  He’s Lord Vanquisher’s now, the stone is Lord Vanquisher’s now, it belongs to Mike’s king.  His real king, his good, true king.

“You’re going to drink this,” the king says, and throws some dried-up leaves into a bowl under one arm, hurrying from counter to desk to shelves and grabbing things.  “And then we’re gonna figure out how to fix this whole…we gotta put that stone back.”

“Nnh, no,” says Mike, dismayed.  “No, it’s for you.  I gotta—I’m better, now, like…like this.”

Lord Vanquisher stops and turns, staring.  “Mikey,” he says, and the nickname makes that happy little pang of bright possessiveness go through Mike’s chest again.  Wanting, being wanted.  “How can you even  _say_ that, dude?”  He holds up the stone again, staring at it, turning it back and forth in the light.  It gleams, gorgeous intense blue like a perfect sky at the height of summer.  Like the ocean in a storybook. “…jeez, I thought I felt somebody working magic, I didn’t think—”

"It's not mine," says Mike.  "Found it."  Why does he have to act like he doesn’t want this, why does he have to make Mike offer it to him, over and over again—it hurts, giving up claim to it.  It hurts every time.  But it’s fine, it’s fine, Mike’s fine.  “…Please, sir, it’s yours.”

"You didn’t  _find_ it, you dork, you made it," Lord Vanquisher says.  "I’ve written  _papers_ on animadividation, it’s—really—no, okay, stop trying to distract me, you  _can’t_ give me this!"

"I found it," Mike repeats stubbornly, "And it's yours."

"This is a  _dragon stone_ ," says the king.  He pulls another jar down off his shelves, voice going flat for a second like he’s reading out of some book in his head.  " _—a theoretical construct derived from the mutable state of draconic souls, extracted only through inborn draconic spellcraft._   It’s completely unethical to expect you to make one, and you’re gonna put it back where it came from, holy shit!”

“No,” says Mike.  “That’s not—no.”

“Everybody has to have a  _dragon_ ,” The king is muttering to himself feverishly—he slams a jar down on the counter, braces his hands on it, stops for a second or two to catch his breath.  He sounds like he’s still halfway to another one of those awful, wheezing attacks, and Mike shrinks a little in his seat.  “Dragons,  _dragons_ , every freakin’ kingdom’s gotta have one, every kingdom’s gotta have  _slaves_ or it’s not a kingdom, right?!  Most of us don’t make our own collar and hand over the leash— _god,_ Mike!  Even if you’d just  _picked it up_  I wouldn’t take it, and—and you’ve got—”

He stops.  Turns back around to Mike sharply, frowning, eyes wide. 

“…the others,” he says.  “They’ve all got—Mike, are all of those stones yours?  The ones the others are wearing, you've made  _four_?!"

"No,” says Mike, pointless denial, knee-jerk instinct.  “I can’t.  I’m not.”

"You're a dragon," Lord Vanquisher says.  "I know, Mikey, I know, it's  _okay._ We all know!"

Mike stares at him, and the king makes a frustrated noise and reaches down to him, wraps an arm around his chest and  _lifts_.  The blue stone burns and Mike makes a wordless little noise and shudders all over as the pit in his chest aches.  The stone is separate from him now, but it’s his, will always be his.  His chest is throbbing, his heart is pounding as his power channels away from him.  He lets himself be lifted effortlessly, off his knees, off his feet, off the ground.

"What— _whoa_ —"  the king stumbles across the room, half-dragging Mike, dumps him on the couch and lets go of the power again.  Mike goes limp as it drains away from both of them.  The king opens his hand, stares down at the blue stone Mike pushed into his palm.  "Holy shit.   _Wow_."

"You...carry a lot," Mike tries to explain, bleary.  "You gotta be strong, you carry—a ton, all the time."  And then, "So you did, you knew?  You know?"

"Know...?"  Lord Vanquisher starts, and then realizes.  His face does something confused and amused and furious, all at once.  "Oh—christ, Mike, of  _course_  I knew!  You think I haven't studied dragon magic, after—what I did?  You think I got to be a king without learning about _dragon_   _taming?_ " 

The words make Mike flinch, but the king says them with so much venom he unflinches a second later, staring and startled.  Lord Vanquisher is pacing in tight circles, still talking fast and feverish.  "—Every king on the continent has heard the Pale King could breathe fire, Mikey, of course it wasn't actually his!  And I mean, you’re…you’re not human.  Anybody can tell, if they’re looking.  You’re more—you’re just…"  He reaches out, and if he puts a hand on Mike's shoulder Mike is going to snap at him, he can't handle that right now—but he doesn't.  He hesitates, and then lays a hand on Mike's cheek and Mike really can't breathe.  He can't  _breathe_. 

"You're something else," says his king, pained, and looks at him like he's something wonderful, something important and valuable.  "I don't know how I got this lucky, dude."

"Don't," says Mike, small and agonized and amazed.  "You don't have to lie to me, I'm not gonna hurt you, you don't have to pretend—"

"Dude, why would I be  _lying_?”  the king laughs, not really like he thinks it’s funny.  “—even if you wanted to hurt me, I’m pretty sure if you stood up right now you’d faceplant."

Mike makes a furious, pained sound, a jagged half-laugh.  "This isn’t _funny!_ You  _kill_  things like me!"

Lord Vanquisher flinches from the words like they burn, but he doesn't take his hand away from Mike's cheek.  “You’re my friend,” he says. “I won’t—I wouldn’t.  Never.  I don’t care what you are.  And neither do the others.”

"You should," says Mike.  “—they don’t know.”

"Mike, I bet they’ve known since, like, a week after they met you," Lord Vanquisher says, and finally pulls his hand away.  "They knew you’d act like this if they told you, they—agh,  _Mikey_ , you make people wanna protect you, okay?  You just do."  He reaches out with the stone in his hand, like he's going to press it back into Mike's chest—Mike flinches back. 

“ _No!_ ”

"You gotta take it back!” the king insists.  “You look like somebody dropped you off the castle a couple times, you can barely walk! "

"I'll get  _better_!"  Mike snaps, and shoves his hand away again.  "Quit it!  I'm not taking it back, it's yours!"

"Well, I'm not taking it!"  Lord Vanquisher’s voice is rising now, furiously worried.  "I'm not taking it, and your friends shouldn't have either.  I can't believe they let you do this to yourself!"

"They don't know," Mike says, and then, as the king’s mouth drops open, "—you can't tell them!"

"You—you—"  Lord Vanquisher waves his hands in the air, apparently speechless.  "Rrngh!  You're impossible! Stop  _hurting_  yourself, dude!  That's—an order!  Okay?!  Why would you do this to them—all of us?  You make friends with somebody and your first thought is 'I better rip part of myself out and hand it over!  They'd like that if I  _ever freakin' told them_!'"

"It wasn't for them!"

It hurts, just saying it out loud.  Hurts to raise his voice, and hurts to talk about it.  Hurts to think about it.  The Vanquisher goes still all over and Mike hates the look of realization in his eyes, the… _pity._ Mike trains his eyes off in the distance somewhere and talks fast.  Pretends he’s reporting to an officer, to the emperor. 

"I made them for Kane," he says flatly.  "He asked for the first one when I was eight and I was too _stupid_  to think it was a bad idea, so I gave him sight.  He asked when I was twelve and I gave him my wings, he liked that, he was—"  It hurts, it hurts, his chest  _throbs_.  Mike blinks furiously, eyes burning, fighting to keep his voice steady as his throat tightens.  "—He didn't even have to ask me for the third one, I wanted him to—I wanted..." 

He can still remember forcing himself to stand straight and tall, to meet his emperor’s eyes and then kneel, proud and young and stupid.  He remembers holding out the stone, breathing out one last gasp of incandescent heat before Kane took it out of his palm and his fire flickered away.  Some nights, he still wakes up shivering all over like he's dying of cold. 

"They don't know about the stones,"  Mike says, through gritted teeth, and breathes away some of the old anger, the hurt.  "...they don’t know what I am, and—and they don't need to know, sire, please!  I know what I am, I know I’m a—I’m a _monster_ , but I can help you!  I’ll keep my oath, just please don’t tell them—"

Chuck hugs him.

It's so abrupt, he doesn't know what's happening for a second.  Mike tenses up, ready to fight, but Chuck just holds onto him, one square palm cupping the back of his skull.  Skinny, knuckly fingers buried in his hair.  It feels good.  It feels so, so good, and his chest hurts and his eyes burn.  Mike crumples, burying his face in Lord Vanquisher's shoulder.

"It wasn’t stupid,” Chuck says, small and feverish, and the hand on his hair strokes once, twice, trembling.  “It wasn’t, you just wanted—you were just a kid, Mike.  You were just a _kid_.  It’s not your fault.”

It’s not true, but the lies feel so good to hear.   Mike leans into it, not quite daring to reach out and hug him back, not sure if that’s allowed now. 

“I’m never gonna ask you to hurt yourself for me,” Chuck says, after a long, silent minute.  His voice is really small, and so, so tired.  “I’m…not that kind of king, dude.  I’m not that kind of…friend.  I don’t wanna be.  I’m trying.”

“I know.”  They would never demand it, expect it, not like Kane did.  But they  _deserve_ it.  Mike presses his forehead against one bony shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut.  “…They don’t know,” he says, words he’s said to himself hundreds, thousands of times.  “They don’t, they can’t know.  Please don’t tell them _._ ”

“Why?”  Chuck asks, and Mike doesn’t want to answer but there’s a cool, long-fingered hand on the nape of his neck, playing with his hair, and it feels kind of like he’s falling apart at the seams.

“… _They’ll leave,_ ” Mike says, wretchedly quiet.

Chuck breathes out, a long, slow sigh against his ear—the hand on the back of Mike’s neck firms a little, pressing against his skin, just holding him there.  “Oh, man,” he says, quiet and unhappy.  “Oh, no.   _Mike._ ”

He doesn’t try to argue this time, though.  Just pets Mike’s hair, gentle even though he knows.  Mike thinks of the Duke, of bared white teeth and greedy, knife-sharp eyes, and shudders.  Of course.  Chuck’s got plenty of experience with…loving dragons.  And Mike’s almost harmless, almost normal, compared to the Duke.  If Chuck can look at that hoarding, jealous snake of a man and think of him like a dad _,_ no wonder he can tolerate Mike.

“I thought you were…” he can’t say the words.  The king starts to pull back, trying to get a look at his face—Mike holds on, doesn’t let him pull away.  He can’t look him in the eyes right now.  “…y’know.  Too.  Maybe.”

“Oh.”  Chuck swallows, rubs his back once like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.  “I—no.  Sorry.”

“No!  No, I mean…it’s good.”  Mike clears his throat.  His voice sounds weird and wrong.  “You shouldn’t be.  It’s—not, uh.  Not great.  We’re not great.  I’m not—”

“Don’t,” says Chuck.  “No, dude, of course you are.  Geez.  You’re about the best guy I’ve ever met.  You’re, like, insultingly perfect.”

It’s real nice of him to lie, but it doesn’t help right now.  It just hurts.  Mike shakes his head silently, leans cautiously back against Chuck and shivers with relief when Chuck lets him hold on a little longer.  Doesn’t push him away.

He stays there for a long time, letting himself relax into the smell of Chuck’s hair, the warmth of his skin.  And then, finally, he sits back and straightens his spine, head held high.  Clenches his fists on his knees and meets his king’s eyes almost steadily.

“Okay,” he says, with barely a tremble in his voice.  “…I’m ready.”

“You’re…ready for what?” Chuck says, bewildered.  Mike opens his mouth to answer, but words won’t come out.  He just tips his chin up instead, bares his throat.  Chuck’s eyes flicker down to it, stick there for a second—snap back up to Mike’s face, going wide.  “— _Oh._   Oh, Mike, no.”

“…No?”  The word comes out kind of cracked, but steady.  Mike keeps his neck bared, waiting. 

“No!” Chuck repeats.  “No, I’m not gonna—no.  Mike, seriously.  Have I ever done anything that would make you think I was gonna collar you?”

“You’re my king,” Mike says.  “I won’t fight you, it’s okay.  You’re my king.”

“So?!”  Chuck groans, drags his hands over his face.  “No!  I’m not going to, I’m never going to, and—and if anybody else wants to, they’re going to have to go through me!  Okay?!   _No._ ”

Mike stares at him, kind of…frozen, waiting for the words to sink in.  Waiting for a “ha, _gotcha!_ ” and a cold burn around his neck.  Lord Vanquisher looks back at him, lips pressed together to keep them from trembling, eyes blazing.

“Last time I saw a collared dragon,” he says, very quietly, “…I was Mad Dog’s.  Do you get that?  They used to stop every night, chain up the dragon, chain up the mages.  I should have freed—I mean, I  _wanted—”_ He stops, swallows hard.

“…But I didn’t,” he says, and his voice is very bleak, so, so tired.  “You wanna talk about ‘I’m not great’, ha, all you did was get born a dragon, and it sounds like you’ve been a pretty stellar guy ever since!  I’m a  _murderer,_ Mikey.” 

He says the words like they’ve been building up a long, long time, like they’re something he’s thought to himself and never dared to say out loud.  Mike stares at him, blindsided.  “You’re…not a murderer,” he says, numbly.  “You were a soldier.  We both are.”

“That dragon wasn’t!”  Chuck snaps.  “I could have found some way to break the collar instead—I could have got past to Mad Dog some other way, I  _know_ I could have!  And if I couldn’t have, I should’ve died there instead!”

 “ _No,_ ” says Mike sharply. 

“—It should’ve been me, I  _wish_ it had b—”

“No!”  Mike grabs his arms, squeezing hard—too hard, hard enough Chuck yelps and twists away.  Mike loosens his grip hastily, but he can’t bring himself to let go.  “No,” he says again, choking on the word, on the thought of— _no._ “Dude—sire,  _Chuck,_ no, don’t say that.”

“You can’t tell me I’m wrong!”

“Yes I freaking  _can!_ ” 

Chuck stares at him for a second, breathing hard, eyes too bright.   Opens his mouth—nothing comes out.

“I'm...not a good king," he says finally, soft and miserable.  "I'm  _not,_ Mike.  I don’t deserve this.”  His hand works around the stone, there’s a soft tug in Mike’s chest.  “This, what you see in here, that's  _really_ me.  Why do you think I don't take calls after sunset?  I'm not--strong, or, or brave, I'm really not as smart as you think I am—"

“Is that why…why you had that, uh…”  Mike waves a hand uncomfortably, trying to sum up that weird, gasping attack.  “…Because you already went to your room for the night?”  He glances around, suddenly uncertain.  “Is it some kinda spell?”

“You could say that,” says Lord Vanquisher, and drags a hand through his hair, rumpling it up.  “You can…can put up with just about anything, if you know when it’s gonna end.   _I_ can put up with anything.  If I know, when the sun goes down, when I shut the door, I’m safe and I can do… _whatever_ I need to do, I can scream, or, or break something, or have a panic attack.  I can be  _Lord Vanquisher_ out there.  I can be king as long as the sun's up, but in here...”

There’s something awful, something desperately lonely, about the idea of him closing the door, staring wild-eyed around his blank room, and then just falling apart.  Mike edges closer before he can stop himself, starting to reach out, and then catches himself, pulling back.  He’s not going to be collared, Chuck’s…taking mercy on him, somehow, miraculously.  That doesn’t mean he should get ahead of himself. 

“I’m such a _coward_ ,” says Chuck miserably—stops himself.  Takes a deep breath and starts again, a little steadier.  “But.  But I’m trying.”

“You’re not a coward,” Mike says.  “I’m pretty sure you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.”

Chuck laughs out loud, harsh and startled.  “Ha— _what?_ ”

“Sire, I’m not joking.”

“No, you’re just crazy,” says Chuck.  He’s smiling a crooked, unhappy smile, shaking his head.  “Oh, man, that’s good.  Bravest— _ha_.”

“You are!”  Mike insists.  “If you’re seriously that scared, and you go out there and run the kingdom every day anyway—there’s not a lot of people who could do that, y’know?" He can't decide what the feeling is that's welling up in him--pity, or admiration, or just a stupid, desperate kind of protectiveness.  " _That's_ brave, dude.  Doing stuff you're scared of, that's brave."

Lord Vanquisher's smile doesn't fall so much as shift,.  His eyes wander over Mike's face, dark and half-hidden behind his bangs.  

“Well then, Sir Smiling Dragon,” he says, and there’s an edge  to his smile that makes Mike’s stomach swoop, a nervous kind of recklessness.  “Allow me to show my  _bravery._ ”

He kisses slow and deliberate like he does spellwork.  Mike messes it up by breathing at the wrong time, laughs too loud and nervous around the sudden, swelling warmth inside him, tries again.  Kisses him back, clumsy but enthusiastic, until he bites down gently on Chuck’s lip and Chuck yelps and jerks back, eyes round.  Mike grins, not nearly as apologetic as he probably should be.

“Oops.”

“Pretty sure biting your king is a crime,” Chuck says.

Mike laughs out loud, dizzy euphoria filling him up from the inside out.  Chuck’s smile grows, shy but warm.  "Of course, your majesty," says Mike, as courtly as he knows how.  "--I beg your forgiveness."

"And I willingly grant it," says Chuck regally, and then kisses him again, rests one hand on the side of Mike's neck and strokes a calloused thumb past his jaw.  By the time he pulls back, both of them are breathing harder.  Chuck gives a giddy kind of laugh and pulls his hands away to rake them through his hair, staring at Mike like he can't believe he's real.  " _Wow,_ " he says, and then "Oh!  Uh--here, let me try--"

For a second Mike doesn't get what he's supposed to be trying.  Kissing is great, but it doesn't feel much different from the first time.  And then Chuck sighs out a breath against his lips, and fire washes over Mike's skin.  It doesn't burn him--there aren't a lot of fires that even could--but the hot, strange ache tugs at something inside of him.  Mike gasps out loud, feels his whole body shudder and every muscle go weak.  “ _Sire,_ ” he gasps, breathless, and Chuck bites his lip and tugs a little.  Mike wants—he wants—  “ _Please_.”

“Is that…good?”  Chuck sounds worried, and there’s still mage-fire dancing around his lips and Mike kisses him hungrily, desperately, moaning at the taste of heat against his mouth.  There’s no fire inside him and there should be, he needs it, he should be able to breathe fire back, to mingle their flames and twine against him and—

“ _It’s good,_ ” Mike croaks, and feels something awful and helpless rising in his chest instead, pain and want and gratitude and joy all at the same time.  His voice breaks into a noise too much like a sob.  “It’s—so good, and I just—I can’t, I don’t have—”

“I-I mean, that’s—kind of a good thing, right now,” Chuck says, babbling and nervous, and his hand comes up to rest on the back of Mike’s head, petting his hair desperately.  “I’m only immune to my own fire, uh, the stuff  I make with my magic, I mean—well, if I could figure out a fireproofing spell, you could borrow that stone back from Texas and—”

Mike lets out a noise he’s never heard himself make before, a kind of strangled moan of longing, and pushes up to kiss him again.  “ _Can we,_ ” he says, wretchedly ashamed but too desperate to stop himself, “Yeah, please, could you…?”

“Oh, geez,” says Chuck, very softly, and strokes his hair again.  “Yeah, totally I can, Mikey.  I mean, I can try.”

“Sorry,” says Mike helplessly, and kisses him again.  “It’s—weird, it’s stupid, you don’t have to.”

“Geez,” says Chuck again, half a sigh.  He wraps his arms around Mike’s shoulders, rocking just a little from side to side, pressing his cheek to the top of Mike’s head.  “…no, Mike, it’s not weird, it’s not stupid.  It’s…you’d like it, so it’s important, okay?  I wanna make that happen for you.  I’ll…I’ll work on it.”

There’s no reason for that to make Mike’s chest squeeze, tight and painful.  But it does, it hurts.  He closes his eyes, sniffs and swallows really hard on that heavy, cold ache under his heart. 

“ _…’kay,_ ” he says, and it comes out almost steady, very, very quiet.  “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”  Chuck squeezes him again.  “…Do you want me to…?” fire flickers around the words, and Mike’s eyes snap down to his lips, the spark of flames behind his teeth.  He opens his mouth to answer and then…hesitates.  Feeling that fire on his lips was so good, right and important and intense, but…the cold empty place where he should be able to respond is almost sickening, a vicious emptiness.  He makes a wordless noise, conflicted, and Chuck nods like it's an answer.

“…Okay,” he says.  “It’s…too much, right?  Okay.”

Mike is so grateful he can’t breathe. Or—geez, maybe that’s just the pain in his chest.  Oh, man.

“Mike?”  Lord Vanquisher pats his shoulder cautiously, then leans down and works one long arm under Mike’s, supporting some of his weight.  “…Come on.  Let’s get you back to your room, okay?”

“You breathe fire, though,” Mike says blearily, as he’s helped out the door and down the hallway.  “There’s no circle.  You didn’t say any magic.”

“Oh.”  Chuck sighs.  “There is a circle, dude.  It’s just…”  He pauses, opens his mouth wide and sighs out a long, long breath, and this time Mike sees the light, the spark and burn of magic.  A rippled network of scarred lines inside his mouth, carved into his palate. 

“How…?”

“Made the circle out of wire and heated it up red-hot,” says Chuck flatly.  His hand tightens briefly on Mike’s arm, his voice wavers.  “…when I was still in Mad Dog’s army.  It couldn’t be somewhere they could see.”

There’s so much to say to that, and so much Mike can’t say— _that should never have happened to you, you’re never gonna have to do something like that again, I’ll keep you safe—_ Mike settles for leaning a little closer, fingers knotting up in Chuck’s shirt.

“It’s fine now,” says Chuck.  “It’s saved my life…a couple times now.  It’s a good spell.”

They walk in silence for another couple of minutes.  Mike is half sleep-walking, eyes almost shut, leaning heavily on Chuck’s arm, when Chuck’s voice jolts him awake. 

“…The Duke taught me how to do it,” he says quietly.  “…He broke my cuffs for me.  He’s the only reason I escaped.”

Mike can’t answer that either.  Silence falls again, and for the rest of the way up to the Burners’ room, neither of them talks.

Everybody is in bed when they get there.  Chuck picks his way across to Mike’s room, edges sideways through the door and then helps Mike down onto the bed with a groan. 

“We’re going to talk in the morning,” he says, half an order, and Mike nods heavily, trying to force his eyes open again.  “…Mike, you need to take…”

He reaches into his pocket.  Mike knows what he's holding out, can feel it through Chuck's fingers even before he unfolds them.  The stone gleams in the center of his palm, refracting the faint moonlight into an unearthly silver-blue glow. 

“No,” Mike mumbles—for a second when he reaches out he almost breaks anyway, almost snatches the stone away.  Then he breathes out and wraps Chuck's hand closed around it instead.  Squeezes, rubbing his thumb past battered knuckles.  "...Keep it.   _Please,_ Chuck, just keep it?”

Chuck opens his mouth and then, very slowly, closes it again.

“…For now,” he says painfully, and Mike slumps all over in relief.  “I’ll keep it, but—just for now.  It’s not mine to keep, dude.”

“It’s yours,” Mike says, utterly certain.  Chuck sighs and shakes his head, but doesn’t argue any more.  Just helps Mike down into the bed.  Mike winces at the shift of tacky fabric over his skin, reaches down and tugs at his shirt—Chuck makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat and then reaches down too, strips Mike’s shirt off him clumsily and tosses it across the room to the laundry basket.

He’s kind of red in the face and it’s great, he’s great.  Mike catches his wrist, pulls a little.  Kisses him again.  Chuck's pensive frown dissolves into a startled, hitching little gasp, and for a glorious couple of seconds the aching place in Mike’s chest doesn’t hurt any more. 

Then Chuck disentangles himself gently, pulling away from Mike’s hands and pressing him back down.  “Get some sleep,” he says hoarsely, and hesitates.  His hand on Mike’s shoulder trails down, jerky and hesitant, and touches the center of his chest.  The skin there feels raw, everything inside him feels pulverized, and Mike groans again before he can stop himself.  Chuck’s hand pulls away sharply.  “Sleep.  I’ll.  Uh, we can—in the morning, um…”

“I’ll be here,” Mike promises, quiet and bleary.  Now that he’s lying down his eyes are unfocusing, drifting.  His whole body feels so tired it aches.  “I’ll…I’ll be…”

“Sleep.”

Mike sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> **"Myne Dracon kussed myne Feet and myne Hande and begged me his Fyre to tayke of him. I cast it awaye, took him to myne Bosome instead and made him Court's Belovd, and for however longe as myne Hart is helden by him, sware I to live as his worthe Master and his Fyre be cleft to us eache alike."**  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> \--Unknown Author, approx. 1400 BC. Document fragment salvaged from a pre-Fall building believed to be a former National History Museum. Currently held at the private library of his majesty the Vanquisher, ruler of Raymanthia, lord of the Michigan Wilds.


	11. Broken Oaths, Stolen Crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Duke's saved Chuck's life more times than he can count--from assassins, from war, from curses, from poison. From endless, crushing fear. All he asks for in return is trust.  
> And no matter what, Chuck trusts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I miss you every day, girl! I wish you could've come with me. I mean, I know why you didn't, but a girl can dream, right? F. has been showing me the craziest stuff, and every time I just think "I wish Jules was here"!"  
> "But that's not why I'm writing. I actually might see you again in a couple of days! F. says there are some suspicious-looking people hanging around her territory, and they might have a dragon with them?? So F. wants us out of the way if she has to fight. It's just a weird guy in red, but F. says she gets a bad vibe when he's around. She's so cool, seriously! I think you'd like each other, if "  
> \-- Unfinished letter, abandoned in the empty nest of a topaz dragon to the South of New Deluxe.

Mike looks a lot smaller asleep than he does awake, crumpled and battered and exhausted.  The oath-breaker scar cutting across his chest is just as dark as it was before—geez, the darkness of it, the _size._ Mike said he was young when his mother was killed, but _how_ young, that he served Kane for that long?

Chuck’s stomach twists, like it always seems to, at the thought of Kane as Mike’s king.  Kane exploiting all that eager, good-hearted loyalty, taming his war-dragon with persuasion instead of compulsion spells.  Chuck almost wishes Kane _had_ just put a collar on Mike—it would have been awful, but it might have been better than the jagged edge of angry _hurt_ that surfaces sometimes in Mike’s eyes.  Chuck knew from the minute he was conscripted that he was fighting for a monster.  Mad Dog never pretended to care.

Under the oath-scar, the skin over Mike’s breastbone looks flushed and patchy, bruised.  The shadows under his eyes don’t look much better, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on the bridge of his nose.  His pulse is visible in his throat—it’s hard to tell, but it looks like it’s going way faster and way harder than it should be. 

Chuck closes his hand over the stone in his pocket, chews on his lip and then squeezes and draws the power out of it, the strength that seems to be welling endlessly up out of it.  In his sleep, Mike shivers.  A very faint glow seems to throb in the middle of the bruised patch on his chest, and something that looks like pain twists his face. 

Chuck lets go of the stone hastily, sits back and presses his hands over his face until he can breathe without hyperventilating.

…Dragon stone.  Okay.  Okay, alright.

Even back when every king in the state had their own personal attack-dragon, nobody had a dragon stone.  There’s all sorts of dark magic to force a dragon to serve you, but nobody ever managed to coerce their dragons into— _this,_ into what Mike did willingly.  Splitting a piece of himself off and handing it over with desperate devotion, like Chuck would ever ask for what Kane just _expected_ —

Nope, okay, still not okay.  Chuck takes a couple more breaths and stops thinking about that for a minute or two, just letting his heartrate wind down. 

Does this mean Mike…picks him?

Geez, it never even occurred to Chuck that he was even _in the running,_ with all the other Burners.  Mike…loves them.  Loves them so whole-heartedly it’s kind of painful to watch.  Chuck was even kinda glad he wasn’t an option, because just watching Mike try to pick one of the other three was hard enough, but—the idea that he would be willing to pick _Chuck_ , that he likes him _that much_ —wow. 

Chuck reaches out, cautious, not sure if he should, and touches Mike’s face again.  When he strokes strands of wild hair back out of his eyes, Mike shifts and makes a soft little noise that doesn’t sound human at all.  A rattling groan.  

The scales on his cheeks are almost completely gone, now.  Mike’s ears used to be pointed—and they still are, but they’re shorter and rounder.  His lips are slightly parted, and behind them Chuck can see even, almost-flat teeth.  He caught sight of Mike’s eyes, too, when they were…close, earlier.  His irises are almost pure brown now, missing the mesmerizing flecks of green and the golden streaks that used to shoot through them.  He still doesn’t look human, but he’s a damn sight closer than he was at dinner a couple of hours ago.

He’s also stupidly handsome, but that isn’t a human thing.  That just seems to be a Mike thing.  (A  _Burner_ thing, if Chuck’s being honest with himself, which, no, he’s not right now.  No need to complicate this mess any further.)

Chuck turns the dragon stone over in his fingers, and thinks. 

He almost wants to just…give it back right now, while Mike is unconscious, press it to that bruised place on his chest and see if it’ll melt back into his bare skin.  But the thought of how distraught Mike got when Chuck tried to return it…no, that wouldn’t end well.  Maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’s stupid, but Chuck can’t bear the thought of turning him down, not after that.  And…that story Mike told.  About a dragon who went mad after their stones were returned to them.  

Chuck’s been digging into old stories and cultures for too long to write things off as “just stories”.  If dragons are telling their hatchlings stories about dragon stones and how dangerous they are…if they make a point of how devastating it is to have them returned, there’s a reason for that.  Stories are important.  They exist for a reason.

Just like there's a reason the stories make such a big deal out of dragons making stones in the first place.  About how intense the process is, how willing they have to be to suffer.  After seeing what it reduced Mike to--staggering, panting, ashy and weak--Chuck doesn't have trouble believing it.  He's seen Mike with a broken wrist, desperate and cornered; he was still fighting back, even then.  But when Chuck just barely touched that place in the middle of his chest--the  _noise_ he made, that pleading, broken little whimper...

"Dumbass," Chuck mutters, and brushes Mike's hair back again.  His voice feels thick and strange, not his own.  "I'm not—I don’t deserve—  You've got no idea."

Mike doesn't answer, of course.  Just sleeps like the dead, lips slightly parted and still flushed from kissing.  Even worn and exhausted, he's unfairly handsome--like Chuck needed another reason he doesn't deserve this guy.  Anybody who saw them together would probably die laughing.  The Duke--

Oh.  Oh, shit. 

It was bad enough when they were just flirting, but...if this turns into something serious there's no way he's going to get away without talking to the Duke.  Somehow, Chuck has to convince him that Mike's the right fit, that he's as loyal and good as he acts and he's not going to endanger Chuck  _or_ the kingdom.  Chuck's never even tried to date before, let alone...whatever Mike wants, whatever he's expecting--and he can't imagine a single logical way this conversation ends in anything but disaster.  

But he's got to try.

Chuck pulls Mike's blankets up to his chin, tucks them in very carefully, and goes to find his advisor.

There's not a lot of finding to be done, in the long run.  Just a short, dreadful walk down the tower, fighting with himself inside his head the entire way.  He doesn't  _have_ to tell the Duke tonight--but he's going to find out sooner or later--but not  _tonight,_ it doesn't have to be tonight when he's still ticked off with Chuck for what happened after dinner--but if he finds out all of this happened and Chuck didn't tell him, he's going to be  _so_ mad.  

He does have to talk to the Duke, and he  _knows_ he does, but the argument lasts all the way up to the door of the Duke's rooms.  Chuck hesitates outside for a long minute, fighting with himself, and then sighs, takes a jerky step forward and knocks.

The Duke has got his sleeves rolled up and his tie untied when he opens the door, and he looks tired and annoyed.  He quirks an eyebrow when he sees who it is, scowling.  Chuck's eyes are inevitably drawn down to his arms, the lines of oath-breaker scars marching up his forearms.  His stomach lurches anxiously.  But—it doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t matter, he trusts the Duke.  How could he not?

“...Well?”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh,  _do_ we?” the Duke says.  “You didn’t seem too interested in  _talking_  earlier.”

“That’s…not fair.”  His voice comes out wavering.  Chuck clears his throat, tries again.  “Things are changing, a lot, and I need to…we need to talk, Duke, please.  Can I come in?”

The Duke regards him blankly for a long minute.  Then he growls and steps back, opening the door and stalking back into his room.  Chuck hurries after him—hesitates, and then closes the door behind him.

 “Well?” says the Duke.  “We need to talk, huh?  So _talk._ ”

“It’s…it’s about Mike.”

The Duke’s expression gets, if anything, even darker.  “Oh,” he says.  “Of _course_ it is.”

“No—look, just listen, okay?”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, kid, he’s _hunting_ you!”  The Duke sniffs, lip twisting.  “…Him and his mercs, like a pack of wolves—give him a chance and he'll—" his cane flicks, a sudden, sharp gesture that makes Chuck startle.  "—snap you up."

"He's not—that’s not what this is!  Mike's a nice guy, you just won’t give him a chance."

"A 'nice guy', mm, sure."  The Duke sighs.  "Just when I think you're startin' to figure out how this goes, somebody pretty comes along and you stumble all over yourself to climb into their trap.  People don't want  _love_ , kid, they want power and money, and if those come attached to a cute piece of ass, even better."

_I want—please, your majesty, yes, please…_

"Well…"  Chuck hesitates for a second, mouth opening and shutting silently.  It’s not— _true,_ that’s not how Mike is, but…but even if he _was_ — "Would that be so freakin' bad, though?!"

The Duke pauses in the middle of twirling his cane.  Slowly, his head turns.  

"...Hwhat."

"If I—liked him, and he thought I was—” Chuck waves a hand, too embarrassed to finish the thought; soldiers on.  "Would that be so bad?  If he wanted—stuff, my stuff, it’s not like I don’t have enough of it.  If he wants money, or, or a place to stay, why not?  If I like him, and I wanna keep him around, and he wanted...would that be so bad?"

"Would it be so  _bad_?"  The Duke repeats, incredulous.  "Would it be  _so bad_  for the king of the realm to take a roll in the hay with one of his  _mercs_?  With a man who smells like a horse's sweaty rear end half the time and doesn't even respect your authority enough to use  _semi-_ formal with you?  On  _no_ , that would be just peachy!  By all means, invite him to the royal suite.  I'm sure he'll be happy to provide the rough and easy ravishing his majesty is _apparently_ seeking!"

Chuck flinches, feels an awful, humiliated flush rise in his cheeks.  He had his mind made up when he came here, he knew what he was going to say, but… it sounds so— _stupid,_ when the Duke says it, so disgustingly whorish and pathetic.  Buying some greedy, handsome rake into his bed with favors, abusing his power.  

"I-I—no,” he says, but it comes out weak, too weak, and the Duke never listens.  “I mean, that's not what— _Duke,_ come on—"

_Please, it’s yours.  I made it for you, it’s yours…_

"Mike..." Chuck's voice breaks a little.  He swallows hard, licks his lips, tries again a little bit stronger.  "Mike is a good guy.  I—I used a truth spell on him, and I know they seem like they’re too good to be true but the Burners are really here to help!  I know—”

“You don’t know _squat,_ kid!”

“I know you’ve been trying to get them to leave ever since they got here!”

“Oh, you know that, do you?”

“You almost got them all _killed,_ Duke!”  Chuck drags his fingers through his hair, pulls at big handfuls of it.  “Trying to make them go is one thing, but they could’ve gotten killed out there!”

“Mercs die!”  The Duke gives an elaborate shrug.  “So?!”

It’s as good as an admission, and Chuck can’t breathe.  “You can’t just—execute people, because you don’t like them!  We’re not like that, _I’m_ not like that!”

“Then it’s a _good damn thing_ you’ve got me, isn’t it?”

“That’s not why I need you, Duke, I don’t want—”

“Oh, it’s not the only job I do around here,” The Duke agrees, “Not by far, but it’s the one you can’t do without!  Who else is going to get rid of problems for you?  Your knight in shining armor?  He’d tear some throat out for you, wouldn’t he?”

“Don’t talk about him like that, he’s a good man, he doesn’t—”

“A good man?”  The Duke scoffs, and something vicious and angry snaps up like a whiplash in Chuck’s chest, something that’s been simmering there since he detected the poison in his cup.  He wants to hurt somebody, let out the fear that’s ricocheting around his body.  “He’s not even a man!  He’s an animal!”

“He’s _not_ a—”

“He’s a _dragon!_ ”

“I _know!_ ”

There’s a moment of panting silence.  The Duke’s hand is white-knuckled on his cane, working like he wants to hit Chuck.  But he won’t, he never has, he’s not going to now.  Chuck meets his eyes, knees trembling, refusing to back down.

“…And you still want him.”  The Duke sounds almost amazed, like the idea genuinely startles him. 

“Yeah!” says Chuck defiantly.  “I do!  Of course I do!”

“There’s no _of course_ about it,” The Duke says.  “You killed a dragon before, now you want to make up for it?  Give this one what he wants instead?”

“No!”  Chuck drags at his hair, frustrated.  “Can you—stop making this something gross!  I just _like_ him, okay?!  Can’t I just like somebody?”

“Somebody who can turn into a giant fire-breathing lizard?” The Duke raises his eyebrows.  “…Somebody who could bring your kingdom down around our ears?  Ah- _no_?”

“He’s made _four stones_ , he couldn’t change form if he wanted to!”

The Duke’s eyebrows rise.   “Four?” he says. 

That’s…not the part Chuck expected him to question.  “Yeah, he—yeah.”

The Duke’s eyes flicker up and down, and Chuck swallows, suddenly uncertain.  There’s…no reason the Duke shouldn’t know that Mike made him a stone, there’s nothing wrong with that.  But there’s something about the look in his eyes that makes Chuck’s heart pound. 

“…Hm,” says the Duke.  And then a second later, like nothing even happened, “Well.  I can see you’ve made up your mind.”

“I…yes.”  Chuck raises his chin, squares his shoulders, tries to look older and surer and braver than he ever really has been.  “I did.  I have.”

“…We’ve got a good thing going here,” says the Duke, almost gentle, _almost_ kind.  “You’re gonna change things, if you go through with this.”

“I’m just…trying to be a good king,” Chuck says, and the Duke huffs out a breath through his nose, shakes his head a little like Chuck’s giving him a headache.  “Kings take what they want.”

“That’s not why you’re _taking_ him,” the Duke says, and shakes his head.  “…Alright.  Well, I won’t stop you.  Go see if all your weird little papers are right.”

“Duke, come _on,_ ” says Chuck, but some of the awful tension is loosening in his guts.  He smiles a little, and the Duke sighs again, but not like he’s angry anymore.  Fond and long-suffering.  “Uh…Sorry.  For yelling at you.”

“Don’t make a habit of it,” the Duke sniffs.  He picks up his glasses from his desk, slides them back on, hides his eyes again.  “I hope you know what you’re doin’.”  He hesitates, then jerks his head a little.  “Well, hurry up and get over here.”

He’s so bad at being nice.  Chuck laughs, still shaky from fading adrenaline, and steps forward into reach of one long, skinny arm.  It feels…good.  Warm, safe.  And of course now, stupidly, now that it’s all over his throat is choking up and his eyes are burning.  Every time, he’s a starving kid again.  Shaking his way through a spell-fever that felt like it could kill him, feeling those same strong, wiry arms pick him up out of the mud. 

The Duke’s been there ever since.  Slipping Chuck materials for illegal spells, extra food to keep his strength up.  Helping him limp away from the scorched battlefield where he earned his crown, talking him through the final awful, gory battle of Raymanthian independence.  Distracting him with larger-than-life anecdotes while they carved the first spell-scars into Chuck’s skin, shoulders and forearms and the palms of his hands.  Standing over the first assassin who tried to slit Chuck’s throat in his sleep; breathing hard, cane bloody in his hands, hissing _never let your guard down!  He got you didn’t he, you hesitated and he—  You stupid boy, let me see—_

__

They don’t _do_ hugs, not usually, and when they do it’s usually these brief, rough one-armed things.  But it's not enough, right now.  Chuck throws the other arm around the Duke and holds on tight, burying his face in one bony shoulder.  The Duke freezes for a second, locking up with a startled noise that might be a bitten-off curse.  A second later he's moving again, shoving at Chuck's shoulder, squirming like a cat that doesn't want to be held.  “What—oh, come on, get it together, move on, that’s more than plenty, ex _cuse_ me—”

“ _Thanks,_ ” says Chuck, and lets himself be pushed away, scrubbing hastily at his eyes like he can pretend they’re not stupidly wet.  “Sorry.  Thanks.  I’m—really sorry.”

“Oh, for _god’s_ sake.”  The Duke straightens his glasses, his jacket, huffs again.  “Get it together!”

“I know.  I know, sorry.” 

“Kings don’t say ‘sorry’,” The Duke grumbles.  He starts back toward his desk—stops and half-turns back.  “Here.”

Chuck bends his head, lets the Duke adjust his crown.  Grins up at him and sees the Duke’s eyes flick away from his face. 

“That fourth stone,” the Duke says, and his voice is blank and glib again, as unreadable as ever.  “Wouldn’t _that_ be a hell of a shine on your crown.”

“He didn’t—I never said he—”

“It’s not hard to figure out, boychik,” the Duke jerks his head like he’s rolling his eyes, strolling back to his desk and throwing himself dramatically into the huge armchair he uses to work.  “I think he might get off on the spot if he saw you wearing his shiny rock on your crown right in front of everybody.  Don’t say I never did your love-life any favors.”

“Agh, _Duke!_ ”

“Facts of ah- _nature,_ my boy.”  The Duke bends back over whatever project he’s working on—metal and delicate tools, a faint glow of red magic.  He looks…older than Chuck remembers, all of a sudden.  His shoulders bend as he works, there’s a line at the corner of his mouth.  “Go get some sleep, Lord Vanquisher,” he says, and picks up his tools again, pulling the metal back toward him.  “It sounds like you’re going to have a busy morning tomorrow.”

\--

Mike comes to Chuck in the late morning, the next day.  Chuck was kind of expecting it, but not right then—he’s holed up in a small room on the fifty-second floor, looking out over the city and eating a sandwich.  And then there’s a quiet knock on the door, and Mike’s voice says “…Sire?”

He still looks hangdog, deep shadows under his eyes, breathing harder than he really should be just from walking around the castle; when he sees Chuck, something lights up behind his eyes.  He smiles, and Chuck has to take a deep, deep breath.  God, how is he supposed to—what can he possibly—?

“Good morning,” he says—woefully inadequate, but all he can think to say. 

“Morning,” Mike echoes, almost reverently, and doesn’t stop smiling at him.  “Hi.”

“You look better,” Chuck says, and then kicks himself at the slightly guilty twitch to Mike’s expression.  “I mean—”

“I’ll keep getting better, too!” Mike says earnestly.  “I’ll still be just as good of a knight, I swear.”

“I know!  I know you will.”  Geez, he’s just so… _hungry_.  For approval, for validation, for kindness.  It’s terrifying, the things somebody could do with that if they wanted to. How could the Duke possibly think—

Oh.  Right.  The Duke.

“I went to…talk to the Duke last night,” Chuck says, and yup, sure enough the dreamy grin on Mike’s face flickers, his eyes narrow.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing he asks, because he doesn’t  _get it,_ because for whatever reason two of the most important people in Chuck’s life are determined not to be okay with each other. 

“Of course I’m okay,” Chuck says, and it comes out a lot more of a snap than he means it to.  Mike winces, shoulders squaring, going to attention as automatically as breathing.  “No—I’m not mad, Mike, seriously.  Just…”

“I know,” says Mike quickly.  “Sorry, I know.  I’m tryin’, he just…rubs me wrong.”

“I know he does.”  Chuck sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose as the first stab of the morning’s tension headache starts to throb behind his eyes.  “He’s not easy to get along with, I know, but—yeah, I’m fine.”  Mike is still looking at him like he’s waiting for Chuck to have some kind of breakdown, and it’s galling.  Chuck shakes his head, shakes the thought off.  “How did you find me?”

Mike shrugs.  “You’ve got, uh…” he waves a hand vaguely at himself, at the center of his chest.  “…me.”

Oh.   _Oh._ The stone, of course.  Chuck reaches over and picks up his crown, turns it over in his hands.  “You can use it to find me?  Us?”

“Uh…yeah.”  Mike’s eyes are fixed on the crown.  He can’t see the stone from the angle he’s at, but by the way his eyes are going wide he’s starting to have an inkling.  “Did you—is that…?”

“Oh, yeah.”  Chuck hesitates—god, why is he blushing now, this is so dumb—and then holds out the crown.  “I thought—there’s no better place for it, y’know, it’s…really important.  So…”

Mike reaches out, and his fingers are trembling slightly.  He doesn’t try to take the crown, just traces the tips of his fingers over the shape of his stone, the golden fitting holding it in place.  When he looks up at Chuck again, his eyes are round and wondering.  That  _smile,_ god. 

“You’re,” he starts, “you’re so—” a strangled noise, half a moan.  “ _Wow._ ”

“Wow yourself," says Chuck, kind of winded and breathless.  He still can't believe that a guy--that somebody like this--geez, wow.  Mike  _likes_ him.  Like, wants to kiss him, and...and other stuff.  Geez.  "I just wanted to show you, uh...when I said I wanted to give it back, it’s not because I don’t like you.  Or because it's not a good gift.  It's a  _great_ gift.  I would just rather have gifts you didn't...hurt yourself to make.  You get that, right?"

Mike nods slowly, like he's trying to understand.  Like it doesn't make sense, but he doesn't want to say so.  Chuck sighs.  

"It'll be good," he says.  "We'll figure it out.  I just wanted you to know that."

"It's...okay, then?" Mike says dubiously.  "With the Duke?"

"Oh."  Chuck rolls his eyes.  "I, ha, I mean, he said--some stuff, but he's okay with it.  Seriously."

"What kind of stuff?" Mike says sharply.

"He said—" Chuck chokes a little bit, covers his face with both hands and drags them down his red cheeks.  "...said you were going to r—to take advantage of—my generosity."

Mike narrows his eyes a little.  "...he said that?" he says, more shrewdly than is really convenient.  "Those words?"

"Oh, for—” Chuck shrugs convulsively, looking anywhere but Mike's face.  "He said you were going to  _ravish_  me or something, okay?   _Those_  words.  He's, uh...he's kinda protective."

Mike's eyebrows rise behind his bangs.  Chuck squirms a little bit, face red.

" _Ravish_ you, huh?" Mike sounds highly amused—embarrassed, but definitely amused.  "I'm not gonna do anything you don't want me to do."

It's an innocent enough statement, but something about the way he says " _anything you_ want _me to do_ " makes Chuck's stomach do an abrupt, fluttery thing.  he coughs, nods, feels Mike's eyes on him.  A mild grin that still manages to be strangely wicked.  Chuck clears his throat self-consciously, trying to control his huge, stupid smile.  "No," he says.  "Well.  Yes.  I mean, yeah.  I know, you, uh, ha."  God, get it together.  "Cool."  Nope, wow.

"Yeah," Mike says, and kind of eases closer.  His eyes drift down Chuck's face, and definitely end up somewhere near his mouth.  "...Cool."

"We need to talk," says Chuck, because he hates himself and being happy.  

Mike blinks, refocusing.  "Huh?"

"About this," says Chuck, hurrying forward before he can get too self-conscious to keep talking.  "You, and me.  It's pretty important, y'know, since I'm the king and everything, I just need to know..."

"Yeah," says Mike eagerly.  "Totally."

"Does this mean you...pick me?"

Mike opens his mouth--and goes still.  There's something in his face--shock, maybe, or confusion.  Hurt?  Realization, like he forgot until just now. 

"I know the other Burners also...like you."  It sounds stupid to say it like that, " _like you_ ", like they're kids.  "They told me they told you.  I thought there was no way, y'know, I know they're really important to, to you, but it felt like...something, last night.  But I don't want to rush you, if you're still figuring out what you wanna do..."

He trails off hopefully.  Mike's face twists a little, flushed and conflicted, and he opens his mouth--closes it again.  Groans faintly in his chest and then starts, "--Look, I'm--"

\--

Mike hears it before he sees it, feels it before he hears anything.  Something shifts in the air; a feeling, a sense of presence.  Mike whips around, shoulders stiffening, staring out the window.

"...Mike?"

"Shh," says Mike, and edges toward the window, still staring out.  He can feel it, he can feel... _them_ , there's more than one.  Huge, looming, he can  _feel_ them.  Like a smell, but he can't smell it.  Just a strange sense of pressure.  It feels…familiar.

Off in the distance, something rumbles.  The ground trembles, faint but unmistakable.  Chuck sways and then hurries forward to the window.  "What was that?"

" _Shh_ ," Mike says again, more urgently.  It almost feels like he should be hiding, like they might know he's there--and Chuck definitely should, he's so important.  He can't be out here where they can see him.  "Sire, get back."

"What is it?"  Chuck is tensing up, magic haloing his hands, sparking in his irises.  "What's out there?"

"Dunno."  Mike doesn’t realize he’s reaching for his fangs until he realizes how hard it is to get to them—it feels weirdly vulnerable, no weapons except his sword.  Nails flat and blunt, teeth barely pointed.  “Chuck, get away from the—”

There’s a distant, thundering  _boom_ , and a building falls with colossal slowness.  Chuck hisses a curse and backpedals abruptly, then raises his hands in front of him and murmurs something.  Mike can’t hear most of it, but he hears “… _Make clear what is distant, close the miles between—”_

One of the panes of glass in the window warps bizarrely and _changes._ It’s like looking through the ancient seeing devices Texas dug up one time, the ones that made things far away look like they were close enough to touch.  Except instead of tiny, cracked glass lenses, the entire window is zooming forward, focusing on the distant plume of dust and smoke. 

Mike backs up, staring, as a massive shadow swoops down and tears through the stone like it was paper.  Raises its head.   _Roars._ And Mike—and he’s _seen—_

He’s seen other dragons before.  Has felt something right and familiar stir inside him at the sight of their wings from a distance, has learned manners and rules sitting next to the expanse of one massive, jet-scaled flank.  He’s seen other dragons, and known he can’t ever go back to that, and wanted to so badly his whole body seems to ache.  He could  _fly_.  He could see through every lie, every illusion, breathe fire, he could be something huge and fierce and powerful and—

“Mike!”

Somebody is shaking him.  Mike lets himself be shaken, frozen in place, eyes fixed on the distant shapes.  Their curved necks, their horned heads, their massive wings.  Somebody is saying his name.  He doesn’t— _can’t—_ respond, and eventually they stop. 

Three dragons.  One huge and sinuous, jet black.  One sleek, hornless, feathered with strange, iridescent black-orange feathers that gleam like hummingbird wings.  One smaller than the others, covered in glowing reddish-pink points of light, scurrying over buildings like they’re solid ground, lashing three long, spiked tails.  As Mike watches, the smallest one perches on top of a building, raises its head and makes an unearthly, howling shriek of a noise, flaring its wings in an unmistakable challenge. 

Challenge.  A _challenge._ For Mike’s territory—

No.  But this isn’t _Mike’s_ territory, is it?

“Sire,” says Mike, dry-mouthed, and finally tears his eyes away.  “They’re coming, they’re challenging you, they’re gonna—”

He’s half-expecting to turn and see Chuck hunched in on himself, panicking, clutching his chest—but Chuck is just standing there, looking out his enchanted window with a strange look of serenity on his face.  As Mike watches, he reaches down and picks up the crown, Mike’s stone gleaming in the center of it.  Settles it on his head

“People are going to die,” he says.

“What?”

“People.  Are going.  To _die._ ”  Chuck finally turns away from the window, and his face is calm but his eyes are wide, welling over blue until there’s barely a ring of white around the edges.  The magic washes over his pupils, spills out to crawl like sparks over his skin and hair.  “My people are going to  _die,_ I don’t—have a choice.”

“What?”  those last few words are too flat, too quiet, and dread is suddenly crawling up Mike’s spine.  The dragons are moving in—they already look clearer, closer.  No more than a handful of miles away.  “Don’t have—?”

“I don’t have a  _choice,_ ” Chuck repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself, and he strips off his cloak, shakes out his arms, rolls his wrists.  Again.  Walks toward the door. 

“What—wait!”  Mike jogs to keep up, stomach knotted hard and anxious—Chuck’s face is very pale, very set, his hands are trembling and Mike has _seen_ that look before.  Has felt that desperate, stony resolve.  “I know—I know, you didn’t wanna kill that dragon, Mad Dog’s dragon.  But—whatever you did, if you can do it again—”

“My victory wasn’t witnessed,” says Chuck steadily.  He doesn’t stop walking.  The blanker his face goes, the colder his voice gets.  Formal and stony.  “I stepped forward for the battle and woke on the ground, the dragon slain.  My methods, what magic I worked, it’s all lost.  I remember none of it.  We stand alone.”  His hands clench into fists at his sides, and magic crawls through his scars.  “…As I’ve always stood.”

“ _Chuck._ ”

“Sir,” says Chuck, flat and quiet.  He’s not looking at Mike, just walking with purpose, unstoppable.

“Wait—hold on!”  Mike tries to step in front of him—Chuck elbows past him, not slowing down, cheeks bloodless and eyes wide.  “You’re going to do something dangerous, I can _tell,_ just tell me what it is and I can help—”

“No,” says the king.

“ _Dude_ , come on—”

“You will protect my people,” Lord Vanquisher says sharply.  “And you will let me do my job, and you _will not question me_ and that is an _order,_ Sir!”

The word hits like a whip-crack.  Mike snaps to attention without even thinking about it, spine straightening and arms at his sides.  “My king.”

“Yes,” says Lord Vanquisher, and there’s terrible, terrified determination in the words.  “I am.”

There are crowds of frightened people in the court room, more streaming in every second.  The king cuts a swathe through the crowd, trailing awed silence in his wake.  His eyes are still spell-blind, blue all through with no pupils to catch the light, but magic creeps out along the floor in front of him in shimmering bolts like slow-motion lightning.  Feeling his way. 

The crowd closes behind him, staring; Mike hisses as a throng of people cuts him off from the king’s retreating back.  He’s headed out, out to the courtyard, and Mike can’t _get_ to him, and god he wishes he could still fly—

“Mike!” 

It’s the other Burners.  Dutch has his hair pulled back and gloves on, Texas looks rumpled like he’s been wrestling somebody.  Julie is perfectly composed, but her eyes are like knives.  Immediately she twists a hand, draws a familiar spell of silence around them. 

“There are _dragons_ out there,” she hisses.

“Like _six_ dragons,” Texas says.  He’s jittering in place, staring over top of the crowd at the distant doors.  “Where’s Chuck goin’?”

“I don’t know,” Mike says feverishly.  In this moment there’s nothing to be awkward about, nothing to worry about, there’s just—

“He’s in danger,” says Dutch decisively.  “We gotta go help him.”

Mike could kiss him.  “ _Yes,_ ” he says, half a gasp, “Yeah, yes, I dunno what he’s planning but—guys, you shoulda seen the look on his face, and he wouldn’t talk to me!”

“We got this,” says Texas.   He starts forward, then stops and gives Mike a piercing kind of look.  “…Except, like…Tiny what the heck, you look freakin’ _bad._ ”

“Huh?”  Mike looks down at himself, uncomprehending.  “What?”

“Your face looks weird,” Texas says, frowning.  “And your ears are all—” he pauses—Dutch just elbowed him in the ribs.  “…Pale.”

There’s a dull _smack_ from somewhere behind Mike, like a palm hitting skin.  When he glances back, Julie’s fixing her hair, blank-faced.

“My…ears?”  He reaches up, tracing one—it does feel different, and it takes him a second to realize that’s because the point on it is almost gone.  That’s—good, great, awesome, it’ll make it easier to pass so that’s good, but… “No, I’m fine.  It’s good, let’s go!”

“Mike,” says Julie.  “You made another stone.”

Mike’s heart lurches.  “ _Guys,_ ” he says urgently, “We gotta go, I don’t have time—”

“You made Chuck a stone,” Dutch says, and drags his hands down his face.  “Man, we told you to talk to us before you did anything crazy!”

“I didn’t do anything crazy!”  Mike says stubbornly, “We gotta _go!_ Come on, guys, this isn’t important right now!”

“It _is_ important!”  Julie says, hard and high with something like anger, and Mike flinches before he can stop himself.  “We just told you, we know how you make these!  Ripping out part of your _soul_ is automatically ‘something crazy’, Mike!”

“I—don’t—”

“Whoa, soul?”  Texas is glaring at Mike too, now.  Mike’s heart does something really awful, a kind of sick jolt like he just got struck by lightning.  “Nobody never said the word _soul.”_

“Yes we _did,_ Texas,” says Julie, “We explained the whole thing, we—it doesn’t matter.  Mike, you can’t fight like this.  You need healing.”

“There’s nothing to heal,” Mike says, sharp and snapping, and turns away before they can try to stop him, striding away.  There’s a faint resistance in the air as he gets a few feet away from Julie—he puts his head down and pushes through it, hurrying through the crowd toward the gates.  People gasp as Mike shoves past them, one hand on his sword.  In the distance, he can hear that unearthly scream again.  It sends a chill up his back, makes his shoulder blades ache and cramp where there used to be wings. 

The king is standing in the center of the courtyard.  There’s a silent ring of people around him, watching with wide-eyed amazement.  Chuck doesn’t even seem to notice they’re there; he’s standing very still, back very straight, head held high, hands outstretched like a conductor waiting to start a concert.  He barely even seems to be breathing; his lips move, a constant soft stream of whispers that hiss and sigh through the still air. 

 “Sire,” Mike says, and starts forward—a man at the edge of the circle grabs his arm. 

“He said he shouldn’t be disturbed, Sir,” he says apologetically, when Mike turns to stare at him.  “He told us all to get back, not to get near him under any circumstances.”  He nods down at the ground; there’s a perfect circle burned into the turf and stone, smoking faintly in the cool air. 

“But—” Mike glances up as one of the dragons roars again, a distant, echoing scream.  “They’re coming, we need to set up guards, we need—”

“We don’t need to be scared,” says a woman on Mike’s other side, and she reaches out to take his hand, squeezing it hard.  Her hands are shaking, but her smile is bright.  “He told us he’d make us safe.  He told us to trust him, and…we do.”

“I know you just got here,” says the man, and smiles as Mike stares back at him, speechless.  “You haven’t seen what he can do, yet.  Just…let him work.  Okay?”

The air feels charged, electric.  Overhead, the clouds are rumbling.  Something stings Mike’s cheek—sparks, crawling over his skin and his hair.  Chuck’s voice rises, but the wind rises with it, turning whatever he’s saying into an incomprehensible rhythm of sound and silence.  The other Burners are somewhere behind Mike, following him over, he can feel them.  He doesn’t look away.  He can’t look away.  

The light creeps down Lord Vanquisher’s neck from his overflowing eyes, down his arms, across his chest, his back.  For the first time, his hands move; the light on them forms a complex shape that flies away from him, hovering at chest-height around his empty circle.  His hands flicker again; more shapes, circling in increasingly intricate patterns.  The longer he talks, the denser the spell grows around him; a galaxy, a vast constellation, lighting him up from every possible side.  His face and hair are bleached white as paper by unforgiving, shadowless brilliance.  It’s a merciless light; it makes him look gaunt and distant and almost eerie, hair and clothes whipping.

Julie must be using his stone, because all of a sudden Mike’s vision shifts dizzyingly and the spell snaps into focus.  He can see the shape of it, even if it’s a shape he doesn’t recognize; he can follow the movement of Chuck’s hands.  He’s not pulling magic from nothing.  His hands work unstoppably, endlessly, pulling threads of bright energy out of his chest like he’s unraveling his heart, weaving them together like a spindle.

In the distance a dragon roars, ancient glass shatters—the crowd winces and gasps, but the Vanquisher doesn’t flinch, barely seems to notice.  He raises both hands in front of him and _pushes_ outward like somebody trying to move an immense weight, and the galaxy around him expands with the speed and force of a silent explosion.  The crowd staggers as a shockwave rolls out from him, and for a second Mike stares up and sees his king lit up from the inside, feet lifted off the ground, limp as a rag doll, and—

—The light snuffs out.  The king’s body drops limp to the ground with an awful, dull _thud,_ a dead-fall like a corpse.  

The people gathered around the circle gasp and cry out, worried and confused.  Mike pushes forward and drops to his knees next to his king, careless of the burning-ozone smell of magic still strong in the air.  Chuck is heavy and limp when Mike gets an arm under him, turning him over—his head falls back and his pulse is hammering under the thin skin of his throat.  Unconscious, but alive.  The dragons roar again, but the noise is strange, kind of muffled.  Overhead, the sky swims like the skin of a soap bubble.  Vast, faint lines arc through the spell; the symbols Lord Vanquisher was weaving out of magic, worked into the fabric of the ward. 

Mike is still staring up at the sky when he hears feet running behind him.  The other Burners are there—Ruby, dropping down next to him with a look on her face that’s close to panic.  “Your majesty!” she says, and reaches out—flinches away again, just short of touching him.  “Is he…?”

“He’s alive,” Mike says, and when he meets her eyes he sees the fierce, agonizing relief he’s feeling reflected back at him.  “I don’t know what he did, but he’s alive.”

The words spread through the crowd, and Mike gets an arm under Chuck’s legs and shoulders and hefts his weight, lifting him as gently as he can.  The rest of the guards and knights are pushing through the crowd, headed towards him—Mike turns to Ruby. 

“He’s gotta rest, Ruby.” He says, soft and pained.  In his arms, Chuck stirs and whimpers, almost inaudibly.  Something hot and proud and protective coils in Mike’s chest.  “I need you to have my back right now.”

“If anything changes,” Ruby starts, but Mike is already nodding.

“I’ll tell you right away,” he promises.  “ _Please,_ dude.”

“We’ll guard the king,” says Julie.  Her lips are thin, her back is very straight.  “You know this city.  If the spell fails we’ll have to defend it.”

“The Duke is our regent,” Ruby growls.  “I don’t take orders from—”

“Yeah, well, the Duke’s not here.”  This has to be his fault somehow—bribery, coercion, whatever he did, he doesn’t wanna be here when it goes down.  Mike snarls to himself, then feels Chuck shift in his arms again and forces himself to loosen his grip.  “Ruby, please.”

“…Fine.” Ruby turns away, draws her sword.  “—We’ll set up a garrison.”

“If anything changes…” Mike echoes back at her, and Ruby nods sharply, glances one last time at Chuck’s unconscious face and turns to the approaching guards, drawing herself up to her full height.

People crowd in, gasping and staring as Mike carries Chuck’s limp body back through the court.  Julie is right behind him, saying things like “ _His majesty will be fine, he worked a powerful spell, he needs rest,_ ” and Mike should be reassuring people too but he can’t figure out how right now.  He can barely think in words, he just wants so badly to take Chuck back to the Burners’ rooms, curl up around him and nuzzle at his face until he wakes up.  He’s very cold in Mike’s arms, shivering faintly, eyes closed and face slack.  It’s all wrong, and Mike hates it.

He feels a little bit better when he gets back up to the Burners’ rooms.  They’ve only been there a little while, but it’s the closest thing he’s had to “home” for a really long time.  The other Burners are right on his heels, weapons still drawn.  Mike gets Chuck to the couch, settles down and pulls Chuck up into his lap, curling up over him possessively. 

“He looks bad,” says Texas.  He leans down and pats Chuck’s cheek, then flicks his hair back out of his face.  His hand lingers, hovering over the… blue stone in Chuck’s crown.  Mike waits, tense—Texas doesn’t say anything.  Just pulls his hand away again, turning away. “What did he even do?  Didn’t do nothin’ to the dragons, that’s for dang sure.”

“It’s a shield spell,” says Julie.  “I’ve seen the basic, one-person variation before—people use it in firefights all the time.  But this is…”  She shakes her head, eyes following the distant border where the shield meets the earth.  “Making spells bigger isn’t just about taking the parts and scaling them up, there are _rules._ ”

“So he made a big spell,” says Texas.

“So he _doubled_ the size of the biggest shield spell in history!”  Dutch says, a little bit wildly.  “Geez!  How long has he been working on this for?!”

“…since he was eight,” Mike says quietly.

The others all turn to look at him, startled.  Mike doesn’t meet their eyes. 

“He told me, since he started learning magic,” he says, a little dully, and drags a hand down his face.  “He was…scared.  He wanted something that was gonna keep people safe.”

“Okay so it’s big,” says Texas.  “Whatever.  Dragons are pretty big too.”

“I got a good look at that thing when he was putting it together,” says Dutch.  “Julie, can you…”  he gestures at Chuck’s chest.  Julie blinks, and her pupils shrink to slits.  “Is he still…did he leave a connection goin’?”

Julie leans in, eyes narrowing—and then sits back again and drags her hands over her face. 

“…Yeah,” says Dutch bleakly.  “Thought so.  So…he’s the battery.  Basically.”

“Battery?”  Texas has taken to pacing and throwing punches at the air, occasionally throwing an uneasy glance out toward the distant, skulking shapes at the edge of the ward spell.  “What, like, one of those things, those little boxes full of lightning and junk?”

“That’s not how batteries work,” says Dutch, “But yeah.  Most shield spells are brittle, if you hit them hard enough they break, but this one is hooked up to him.  As long as he’s got magic, it’ll fix itself.  I mean…that’s what it looks like it.”

“What if he runs out of magic?”  Mike’s voice feels wrong, hoarse and strangled, like somebody’s squeezing his throat.  The other Burners glance over at him, then back away again, and he can see his answer in Julie and Dutch’s faces. 

No.  No, that can’t happen.  

“So,” Mike says, and shakes himself, pushes a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut.  “So, we can’t let them attack the barrier.  That would hurt him.  Right?”

“…Yes,” says Julie.

“Okay.”  Mike stands up.  “Okay.  I’m gonna go—I’m gonna go talk to them.”

“What?!”  Texas whips around.  “You’re gonna what?!  Texas’ll go with you!”

“No!” says Mike sharply.  “No, I gotta go by myself.  You guys—look after Chuck.”

“Mike,” starts Dutch, but then, unexpectedly, Julie catches his arm.

“No,” she says.  Her eyes are fixed on Mike’s face, and he’s getting that weird feeling again, like he’s being seen through.  “No, he’s right, he should go by himself.  They might…listen to him.”

\--

The city is empty and quiet, eerie as a ghost town.  The barrier may be up, but nobody wants to get near it when the crashes and roars of the dragons are still echoing distantly through it.  Mutt will only go so close to the edge, and she’s surprisingly hard to spook, usually.  Mike dismounts a little way from the shimmering wall of the ward, hitches her up loosely to a leaning lamppost with strict orders to stay put, and keeps going on foot.   There’s a building near the edge of the ward; Mike ducks through the crumbling doorway and starts climbing.

The view is a lot clearer from the rooftop, but not very encouraging.  Two of the three dragons have spread out, prowling down the edge of the ward like they’re searching for a way in.  The biggest one is still nearby, though.  It’s got its back to Mike, picking through a demolished building with delicate claws.  One of the farms that the Burners passed on the way in is crushed under its feet; a mess of smashed walls and crushed plants.

Well, there’s no smart way to do this.  Better get it over with.

“Hey!”  says Mike, at the top of his lungs.  “ _Hey!_   Over here!”

For a second he thinks it can’t hear him—but then the dragon turns.  It’s a startlingly quick, sinuous motion, from a body the size of a building.  Its head is bigger than Mutt’s whole body, it could eat Mike in one bite.  All three of its horns have hammered silver caps on them, engraved with shapes that look…weirdly familiar.  Those eyes, the scar across one cheek, the bleached, silver-white stripe down its back…

Oh, holy crap.  Mike _knows_ this guy.

“ _Rayon?!_ ”

 “…Well,” says Rayon coolly, and even from a mouth big enough to swallow Mike in one bite, his voice sounds cool and casual, almost jarringly familiar.  He leans in, nose almost touching the barrier, and looks Mike over.  “…Looks like somebody made bad choices.”

“ _Rayon_ ,” says Mike, relieved and unnerved in equal measures.  “Dude, holy crap.  I thought you were dead!”

Rayon doesn’t answer that one—just tips his head from one side to the other, bird-like, examining Mike intensely.  “…You’re even weaker than last time I saw you,” he says, and it’s hard to read his face when he’s in this shape, but Mike’s pretty sure he hears disapproval in Rayon’s voice.  “You went back to Deluxe, didn’t you?”

“What?” Mike almost has to laugh.  “No!  No, of course I didn’t.”

“Then who had you make—?” Rayon stops, and his pupils narrow to hair-thin slits, revealing the burning, neon blue of his eyes. Mike takes half a step back, uneasy despite the barrier in between them.  He forgot how weirdly vulnerable it felt, getting read like this—isn’t too keen on Rayon doing his freaky— _appraisal_ thing, until Mike knows for sure what he’s up to here.

“Nobody ‘had me make’ anything,” he says, a little defensively.  “—And stop looking at me like that.”

“…You’ve got people you care about in there,” Rayon says.  Mike’s skin prickles as the magic pushes at him, reading what he values, the things he cares about, pulling them right out of him.

“Seriously, _stop it._ ”

“Four of them.”  Rayon’s pupils settle again, but his eyes narrow, fixing on Mike.  “…They took stones from you?”

“I made stones for them,” Mike corrects, defiant.  “So?”

Rayon makes a rattling noise Mike is very familiar with—the dragon equivalent of a world-weary sigh.  “Mike,” he starts.

“Why are you here?”  Mike interrupts.  He doesn’t have time for one of Rayon’s lectures about being wary and staying in his own lane, he needs to know what the heck is going on.  Rayon huffs at him for butting in, but he looks…uncomfortable?  His eyes flicker away, dark again.  “Rayon, where’s your flight?”

Rayon’s wings twitch.  “…Not here,” he says.

“Are they okay?”  Mike hadn’t really gotten along with any of Rayon’s stoic guys in black suits, but they were obviously totally crazy about the guy.  Loyal, and pretty kick-ass when they needed to be.  They wouldn’t leave him if they had a choice.  “They’re not…?”

“They’re alive.”

Mike breathes out.  “Okay.  Okay, cool.  Okay, but then—dude, your territory is _miles_ away, what are you doing here?  Who are those guys?  Why are you _doing_ this?”

The massive head on the other side of the barrier turns again, slowly. 

“…You know what we want.”

Mike grits his teeth.  God, he didn’t miss talking to full-blood dragons.  Riddles and half-answers, it’s freaking annoying.  “Lord Vanquisher hasn’t bothered you guys!  You told me you never steal hoards, you _said_ you just wanna be left alone, to do your own thing—”

Rayon lets out a long, rumbling sigh.  “Yes _,_ ” he says.  “You know what we want.”  That huge, jet-black eye watches Mike, and there’s— _something_ going on.  Some part of this Mike is missing.  Rayon never wanted to be part of a war like this, never saw any point to random destruction.  In Mike’s memories he was a distant figure, flying far overhead or stalking around his lair with some of his men, humanoid and sleekly satisfied with his hoard and his flight.  He looks just like Mike remembers—

Except…

“…where did you get that?” Mike says, and leans in until he’s almost touching the barrier, squinting at a band of duller, lighter blackness against Rayon’s perfect, jet-black scales.  “Is that a…collar?”

Rayon doesn’t answer, but he bares his fangs and looks up, past Mike, to the distant castle.  Mike glances back and catches a breath, chest tightening.

“…no,” he says.  “No, don’t even—no.  He wouldn’t.”

“ _Your master’s master,_ ” says Rayon, and then hisses as the collar rattles harshly, iron trembling.  The dull blackness of it lightens against his neck, like it’s being heated. 

“Dude,” says Mike, alarmed, “—who are you talking about?  Look, it’s me, you _know_ me, can you just give me a straight answer why—”

“No,” says Rayon, and turns away, tail whipping, wings half-mantled with tense irritation. 

“Wait!”  Mike recognizes the gesture, knows he doesn’t want to talk, but he can’t just— _let it go_ , not like this.  “Who—?”

Rayon whips around and spits a jet of white-gold fire at the barrier between them.  A jarring shockwave ripples out from the impact and Mike immediately winces, whipping back to stare at the castle like he could tell if that hurt Chuck, if that made him worse.  Rayon doesn’t say another word.  Just growls to himself and turns away again, stalking the edge of the barrier, crushing fallen fragments of ancient buildings under his claws.

If Rayon wasn’t willing to talk to him, nobody will be.  Mike grits his teeth and turns away from the barrier, sprinting back down the road.  Mutt whinnies when she sees him, pulls free of her loose tether and comes trotting up to meet him, and Mike swings up onto her back and immediately pulls her around, urging her back toward the distant towers of the castle.  Mutt goes easily, obviously pleased to be galloping _away_ from the dragons, and Mike keeps his head down and thinks.

_Your master’s master…_

The dead quiet isn’t any less creepy on the way in.  All the stalls and carts are hidden away, and the streets are gray and empty as the first drops of rain start to patter gently down on Mike’s back and shoulders.  There are one or two faces visible in the windows of the buildings closest to the castle, but the doors are closed tight and most of the windows are covered up from the inside. 

There are no guards on the castle gate, either, and _that’s_ not right.  Mutt comes to an abrupt halt just inside the empty courtyard, shifting uneasily from foot to foot—Mike is already swinging off her back before she’s even come to a stand-still.  Before that would have been easy—he stumbles, this time, loses his footing and slams his knees on the ground before he gets his balance.  Mutt has her ears back, her head low.  Mike pats her a couple of times and then drops her reins hastily around a hitching post and half-runs the distance up to the glass doors.

The massive entryway is empty.  All of the people who used to be crowded in here are gone—but, they couldn’t just stay here, that’s…fine.  They must be upstairs, or maybe out in the buildings outside.  Nothing weird about that.

What is weird is how dark it is in here.  The court room is usually lit up with candles and mage-lights, sunlight from overhead.  But it’s dark now, totally dark, and the only noise is the sound of rain tapping on the glass far, far overhead.  Mike slows down, staring around.  Waiting for his eyes to adjust.  He’s breathing hard just from running here, and there’s a nasty pain in his side when he tries to breathe in all the way.  He doesn’t regret making the stone for Chuck, but—jeez, he’s so much slower now, so much weaker.   

“…Hello?”

His voice echoes in the vast, empty space.  Mike swallows, trying to ignore the weird, electric dread clutching at his spine. 

He also draws his sword.  But that’s just—to be ready.  That’s totally reasonable, and it has nothing to do with weird animal instincts. 

“Hello!”  he says again, louder this time.  “Hey!”

Something shifts at the other end of the throne room.  Mike jumps, sword rising, squinting through the dark.  A figure—up on the dais?  Somebody sitting in the throne.

“…Sir Chilton,” says a familiar voice.  “Do you presume to threaten your king?”

Relief swells up in Mike’s chest in a great, soft wave.  He laughs, sheathes his sword again and hurries forward.  “Your majesty!” he says, and glances around—nobody there, and if they are then—screw them, Chuck’s okay, he’s still okay.   “Oh my god Chuck, you scared the crap out of me, I thought you were—”

And then he stops, because something is…wrong.

“…Where’d the others go?”

Chuck shifts—mage-light blooms around one of his hands and flutters off to hover over Mike, throwing a pool of soft white light over him.  It feels…not great.  Mike’s been a soldier for too long to like the idea of being the only thing lit up in a dark, empty room.  It feels like there’s a target on his chest. 

“Sire?”

The white light catches Chuck’s pale skin, his hair, turning his face ghostly in the dark.  He’s leaning back in the throne, wearing…something that blends in with the shadows, black and red and hints of glinting gold.  His eyes spark dimly, two points of light through his hair.

“…Well?” he says, and Mike's spine prickles all the way up and down, a cold, shaking ache.  "Are you going to bow?"

There's a red gleam in the depths of his eyes.

Mike takes a knee briefly, but he can't bow his head, not all the way.  His instincts are howling at him, every bone aching to stretch wings he doesn't have.  "...Are you..." he starts, and doesn't have words.  "...well?  Uh...my king?"

"My health is only your concern as far as brute strength can carry it," says the king, distantly cold, and when he gestures the spells scarred into his arms flare faintly, a visible threat of war-magic ready to cast.  He’s got a ring on every finger, thick bands of gold and gleaming stones.  "Don't overstep your boundaries, _sir_."

_Know your place, Commander Chilton._

Mike feels himself flinch, shameful and unmistakable under the hovering light.  Lord Vanquisher is wearing the breastplate he wore the first day Mike came to the kingdom—scales worked into the silver.  The wyrmslayer mail, the armor he told Mike was his least favorite.  He looks every inch a dragon-killer.

“Where are my friends?” Mike repeats.

"You tell me."  The king sits back in his throne, and even the way he sits is wrong, all disdainful ease, lounging back against one arm-rest with his cheek propped on a glittering fist.  “You told me you can feel them.”

Mike opens his mouth to answer, not sure what he’s going to say—and then stops.  Breathes in again, and tastes the faint, familiar tang of gold and sorcery on the air.

The realization feels kind of like getting stabbed—numb shock, then that _feeling,_ so intense, lancing between his ribs, shocking through his skull.  Bright behind his eyes.  He knew this wasn’t right.  He knew this wasn’t the man he gave his stone to, this cold, distantly-frowning boy king, with cold eyes that burn inside. 

"Come out," says Mike, to the cavernous emptiness of the throne room.  “...Duke."

There’s no fanfare, no showy entrance—the Duke just steps out of thin air next to the throne, unwinding it from around himself like a cloak.  He's wearing his own handfuls of rings; they make Mike's neck prickle even worse on his cunning fingers.   _Thief,_  his instincts snarl, low and visceral in the back of his mind.   _Thief, hoard-taker._

"What did you do to the king?"

The Duke raises his eyebrows, amused.  "Whoever said  _I_ did anything?"

"I can smell your magic all over this place," Mike snaps, and doesn't care how inhuman that sounds.  "Those rings aren't his.  What did you do?"

"I stole from you," the Duke says.  And it's an ancient instinct, Mike can't help it— _THIEF,_ his mind howls, and he snaps his teeth before he can think about it, momentarily blinded with fury.  When he gets himself back under control, the Duke is watching him with amused eyes.  “…Too easy,” he says.  “I don’t know why everybody makes such a huge deal about dragons.  You’re nothing _special._ ”

“You’re not—” Mike swallows hard, one hand tight on the hilt of his sword.  The Duke is too close, right next to the king, and if Mike moves there’s nothing to stop him from taking a hostage.  Wait.  _Wait._   “I thought you were…”

“Hwhat?”  The Duke raises his eyebrows.  “A _dragon_?  Not for the world, baby.  I’m something _much_ better than that.”  He raises his hand, and the rings flash, shimmering from the inside.  For a second his pupils shrink to slits, his teeth are as sharp as Mike’s have ever been.  “…Human through and through, Mr. Chilton.  Human with some…tricks up my sleeves.  All the benefits, none of the pesky little instincts.”

Chuck is still staring straight ahead, distant, like he’s thinking about something else.  The Duke glances down at him, shakes his head and looks back up at Mike, grinning. 

“Your whole species is a soft touch, y’know,” he says conversationally.  “Never did meet a dragon who could hold it close to the chest.  You take what’s important to you and you _flaunt_ it.”  He makes a flamboyant gesture, flinging an arm out dramatically into the air.  “Just a- _throw_ it out there in the wind, for whoever wants to know!  And then act all surprised when somebody comes and steals your sweetest trinkets right outta your claws.”

"You haven't taken anything of mine," Mike says, with an effort, but he knows the pretense is flimsy at best.  It's so hard to think straight, the Duke is standing there at Chuck's shoulder with—those are the Duke’s rings, his colors, he dressed Mike’s king up like some kind of _toy_.  Mike’s going to—he's gonna—  “Undo whatever curse you cast.  I’m not gonna ask again.” 

"Haven’t taken anything?  _Really?_ "  the Duke reaches out and lays a casual hand on the king's shoulder, looking Mike in the eye, never wavering as Mike's lip curls back from his teeth.  "I think I stole a pretty piece or two.  And everybody knows a dragon would do  _anything_  to protect its flight.  Don't they?”

"Yes, my Duke," says Chuck evenly.  “I think he’s trying to bluff.”

“And it’s adorable,” agrees the Duke. 

"Let him go," snaps Mike, and shifts his grip on his sword, ready to draw. 

"Mmmm..."  the Duke rubs his chin ostentatiously for a second, like he’s pretending to think it over.  "...No, I don’t _think_ so."

"What did you do to him?"  Mike breathes in the air, open-mouthed and tasting the magic.  The dragons outside—those rings, the dragon stones that vanished when Mike tried to reach out for them.  Everything is fitting together, and Chuck is just sitting there, watching blankly.  He would never want those stones he’s wearing, he would never take them if he was himself, and Mike’s stomach is tied in an awful knot.  "...Whose power did you steal to do this?"

"Steal?"  the Duke's eyebrows rise.  "Oh, no, this isn’t dragon magic, Mr. Chilton.  This is _homebrew._ Quality work straight from the Duke of Detroit himself.”  He rests a hand on Chuck’s head.  “Show him.”

Chuck tips his head back, reaches up and pulls his cloak away from his neck.  What Mike thought was a gorget gleams dully as the Duke taps a finger against it—a seamless, raw iron collar.  There’s some kind of spell-form worked into it, burning dimly with red light against Chuck’s pale throat.

“There’s enough spells out there for _your kind,_ ” the Duke says, with a hint of a sneer on the words.   “But nobody ever tried changin’ them around for stuff a little bit…closer to home.”  He ruffles up Chuck’s hair, swats him sharply on the back of the head—Chuck sways, but doesn’t react.  “The edits were entirely mine, of course.  He loves me, dontcha kid?”

“I’m not scared anymore,” says Chuck, distant and detached.  “You don’t have to be, when the Duke tells you what to do.  There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“You know it!”  The Duke grins at Mike.  “Told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

“I should have trusted you,” says Chuck, still flat, far away. 

“ _Chuck_ ,” says Mike, too quiet, choked.   The Duke raises an eyebrow at him, expectant.  “You can’t—he’s—”

“I’m going to take over your kingdom,” the Duke says to Chuck, and pats his shoulder.   “…I’ll probably keep you locked up with the dragons when you’re not out putting on a good show for the public.  You’re a dangerous boy.”

“Of course, My Duke.”

“I’d have to hurt you if Mr. Chilton here came after you, of course.”

“Of course,” says Chuck again.  When he nods, the light flashes red in his pupils like an animal’s eyes.  The red glow from the collar flares for a second, uplighting his face with an eerie, bloody glow and then fading again.  “…He’ll probably try something.  He’s in love with me.”

“I know, kid,” says the Duke, and for just a second he sounds very nearly pitying.  “Give him the order.”

“Bring me the stones, Mike," says Chuck quietly, and the order hits Mike like a ton of lead, weighing on his shoulders, pushing him to obey.  He grits his teeth and takes a step back.  He can’t—he can’t, The Duke could hurt Chuck _so easily_ like this, and—he _would_ , he wouldn’t hesitate and Chuck doesn’t seem to care.  And Mike is…Mike is just—

_He’s in love with me._

"Bewitched orders aren't orders from him," Mike says, too late, shaken and pained.  "I never swore to follow your orders, you're breaking our contract."

"Oh?"  The Duke cocks a brow.  "So, you...relinquish your claim on him?"

No _._   Unthinkable,  _no_.  Chuck is his, he's Chuck's.  Mike bares his fangs.  "Let him  _go!_ "

" _No_ ," repeats the Duke, and doesn't even startle when Mike huffs out a plume of smoke and a furious snarl.  "As long as you want him, he owns you."  He lays a hand on the king's head, pats it roughly.  "...and as long as I own  _him..._ "

"Nobody owns me," Mike says.

“Oho,  _really_?” There’s a dangerous edge to the Duke’s smile.  “You want to do this the hard way?  Well, Mr. Chilton, let’s talk  _stakes.”_ He cards his fingers through Chuck’s hair as he talks—twists a few strands of gold around his fingers.  “This spell’s all in the collar.  Hard to take off, and oh, he wouldn’t enjoy that at  _all,_ but…reversible.”

Chuck shifts uneasily at that word, something almost like fear flashing across his face.  The Duke pats his head again, and Chuck quiets a little. 

“…Get me those stones you made,” he says, “… _or…_ I make it permanent.  It won’t be hard.  I’ll scar it into his chest, right here.”  He taps a long finger over Chuck’s breastbone.  “He’ll never have to come back, and he won’t want to.  I’ll make him eat and sleep, when I remember to.  But he’ll spend most of his time hunting you down, Chilton.” 

For a second, there’s true, bitter hate in the Duke’s voice.  His eyes flash like a cat’s as he tips his head down, glaring over the top of his sunglasses—red and blue and gold and green, eerily iridescent and as multi-colored as his rings. 

“…I had a good thing goin’,” he says, and his hand closes in Chuck’s hair, a rough fistful, pulling.  Chuck barely winces.  “…and you had to go blundering through the middle of it.  Well, now you’ve ruined this for both of you.”

"Stop!"  Mike holds up his hands, heart pounding.  The Duke lets go, watching him.  Waiting.  "Stop, okay, stop.  You don't--you don't need to do that.  Just let him go.  Please."

"Why should I?"

"I'll do whatever you want," says Mike, and he means it.  He can almost feel the metal closing around his throat now, as inevitable as the pure, sickening fear that’s crawling across his skin.  "Please, let him go.  I'll do whatever you want."

 “Oh, very noble.”  The Duke’s lip twists a little on the word.  “…You know you won’t be saving anyone, right?  You _do_ know that, I hope.  I’ll still be sending you out to hunt down your little friends.  I still want those stones.”

“They can handle that,” Mike says, and hopes— _prays_ it’s true.  “Just—stop, just _stop_ hurting him.  You’ve messed him up enough already.”

“Hurt him?”  The Duke scoffs.  “I’m the best thing that ever _happened_ to him!  If he’d been able to see that, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now.  But no, you had to come along and sweep him off his feet.  The _bad boy_ from out of town.”  He hooks a finger through the collar on Chuck’s throat and gives him a harsh little shake.  “You’re really not making a good trade, y’know.  He doesn’t have the guts—”

 _“Shut up,_ ” Mike growls.  “Don’t talk about him like _—_!”

“Ah-ah-ah…”  The Duke raises a finger warningly.  “You wanna watch who you’re interrupting.  Who’s about to do who a favor here?”

Mike grits his teeth, forces himself not to snarl.  The Duke grins at him smugly. 

“I asked a question.”

“…You are,” Mike grinds out.

“I am what?”

“You’re doing me…a favor.”

“Uh-huh, very nice, yes, and?”

“And _what?_ ”

Chuck blinks slowly, absently.  “…You’re forgetting your manners,” he murmurs.

“Sire—”

“Eyes on _me,_ Chilton!”  The Duke snaps, sudden and loud, ringing across the court.  “I’m doing you a _favor_ , and you’re gonna _thank me for it!”_

For a long second, the only sound in the court is the sound of the rain overhead.  It’s heavier now, starting into a real late-summer storm, and it rattles on the glass like hail.  For an endless stretch of time, Mike struggles with himself, with the immovable, burning core of him that snarls when it’s pushed, lashes out when it’s held back.  _No.  I’m not going to, he can’t make me._

And then his eyes stray back to his king, stripped of everything that made him good.  If the Duke goes through with his promise—Mike loses him either way.  If Mike attacks, he’s fighting two mages with a handful of dragon stones each, and one of them he doesn’t want to hurt.  If he runs, the Duke goes through with his plans anyway, turns Chuck into his puppet and takes over the kingdom.  It’s him or Mike and that’s…not a choice.

“Thank you,” says Mike, and through the hatred and the hurt he _almost_ means it.  “Please let him go.  I’m ready, just— _ah!_ ”

There’s no warning, no preparing himself—cold metal snaps shut around his throat, burning and heavy as lead.  Mike gasps, hands coming up instinctively to claw at the foreign constriction, and the Duke tsks and shakes his head.

"Don't touch that," he says, almost bored.  "You're not allowed to take it off, or do anything to get somebody else to take it off for you.  Say 'yes, my Duke'."

Mike clenches his teeth stubbornly—and then jerks all over, sucking in a breath as the collar around his throat rattles and tightens—burning,  _choking_.

"Yes—my Duke," he grits out, and the burning stops.  Mike slumps, gasping in deep, desperate breaths as the unyielding pressure of the collar eases again.

"Good," says the Duke, satisfied.  "You’re not allowed to cause me any harm, or try to help anybody else cause me any harm.  Say—”

“Yes, my Duke,” Mike snaps, lip curling on the words.  The Duke frowns at the interruption, but then shrugs and shakes it off, grinning again. 

“Good.  What else…oh, of course.  You’re mine now.  Not his…” he knocks a knuckle against Chuck’s crown.  “Mine.  So…make your oath.”

“I—” Mike falters, teeth bared, hating every word—the collar heats against his skin, squeezing threateningly.  “I…forswear—I—no longer serve— _ah!_ ”

He doesn’t finish the words, but he doesn’t have to; he can feel his broken oath searing into his skin.  It’s right between his shoulder-blades, this time.  The same place as his king’s.  Mike hasn’t been a knight of Raymanthia for long—the scar feels small, just a thick, short stripe down the line of his spine.  But from the way it hurts, burning and unbearable like acid in a fresh wound, it’s got to be dark as pitch.

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” says the Duke dispassionately.  “It’s just another scar.  Finish the oath.”

“…My.”  It’s hard to breathe, his eyes are burning and his throat feels too tight and Chuck is still just watching, like it doesn’t even matter.  That’s the worst part.  That’s the part that hurts.  When Mike tries to finish the oath, his voice shakes out of his control.  “…My steel is yours to command.”

The Duke reaches down and ruffles up Mike’s hair—Mike twitches, teeth baring, wanting _so badly_ to snap at him, to draw his sword.  He can’t.  He doesn’t.

“Now that that’s all taken care of,” says the Duke, and climbs the stairs back up to the throne.  Chuck hasn’t moved since he was left; he stares into the distance, eyes glowing dim and steady with red light, like he doesn’t even see what’s happening in front of him.  “I’m a man of my word.  The boy is free to go.”

He closes a hand on something invisible and gives a vicious tug.  Chuck spasms all over, eyes snapping wide—emotion breaks through the blank mask for the first time since Mike walked in.  “Duke!”  he says, strangled, and curls in on himself, covering his eyes, his mouth.  “No, no don’t—Duke, please I don’t want to go back, don’t—!”

“Take the rings off.  Armor, too.”

Chuck scrambles to obey him, hands shaking—a second later he’s blank again, all that fear locked away.  But his hands still shake. 

“Please,” he says again.  Holds out his hands, pleading.  “I’m better now, I can help you—”

“I know you could,” the Duke sighs.  “Unfortunately for you…I’m a man of my word.”

Chuck makes a long, wretched noise as red light comes streaming out of his eyes, his mouth and nose, dripping down his face like blood.  It seems to go on forever, but really it can only be a few seconds before the red light dissipates into nothingness and Chuck crumples back on the throne.  He gasps, wheezes in a few desperate breaths and then breaks into a hoarse coughing fit, shaking all over. 

“Duke…?” he says, hoarse and small, and then “—Mike!” 

—

Everything is a hazy red blur.  Things that were distant are suddenly too strong: pain, cold, hunger, anger, fear.  Chuck wheezes, trying to catch his breath.  He’s—throne, in his throne, there were dragons—no, but he woke up, and then—

Chuck reaches up to his throat, just in time to feel flakes of metal fall apart into rust and flutter through his fingers.  His neck is burning, his eyes hurt like somebody hit him.  And the Duke—and Mike is…

“Duke,” says Chuck again, and swallows hard on the sour burn of anxiety at the back of his throat.  Mike is standing in front of the throne like a man waiting for the firing squad.  There’s something dark against the brown skin of his throat, dull and shiny like unrefined iron.  “Wh-what—where did…what happened?” 

“Oh, come on, kiddo,” says the Duke, and his tone is so familiar, it’s the same tone he’s always used to explain something when Chuck’s being slow, impatient but fond.  “This ain’t rocket surgery.”

“Y-you said…”  His voice sounds so much younger than he remembers it, so small and desperate.  Mike glances up at him, and there’s a look in his eyes that makes Chuck feel about two inches tall.  Resigned and fond and pained and pitying.  “What are you doing?  What did you _do?!_ ”

“What you weren’t brave enough to do,” says the Duke.  He reaches out and takes a handful of Mike’s hair, pulling—Mike’s teeth bare, his eyes flick back, but he doesn’t move to shake the Duke off.  There’s a collar.  On his neck, a collar, a _dragon’s_ collar.  “This kingdom is going to _be_ something, with me in charge.”

Something awful is happening in Chuck’s insides; a compacting, imploding kind of horror.  “No,” he says, barely a whisper.  “No, I—you can’t be, I thought you were…”

The Duke sighs.  “…C’mere,” he says, and holds out a hand.  Mike twitches, eyes darting from Chuck to the Duke and back again.  But—the Duke’s holding out a hand and—there has to be a reason, an explanation, all of this has to be for a _reason_ —

The Duke’s arm settles around him, and it feels good.  Warm and safe.  Chuck barely realized how hard he was shaking, but he can feel it now that he has somebody to hold onto.  He’s trembling so hard his teeth are chattering, gulping for air. 

“You’re a good kid,” says the Duke, quiet and close, and one of his hands lays on top of Chuck’s head.  For just a second, his voice is almost gentle.  Chuck’s chest does something painful, something awful and agonizing.  He opens his mouth—to sob, to laugh, to say—god, so many things—

“…And you’re _so gullible,_ ” finishes the Duke, and tugs the crown off his head. 

Mike makes a muffled noise, jerking in place—blue light flares in his chest, so bright it’s visible through his shirt, as the Duke settles the crown on his own head and steps away.

“Wh—no, you can’t—”

“Wrong!” the Duke says, and takes a flourishing bow.  “I just _did._ You never did learn, kid, no matter how many times I told you.  _Never_ make the same mistake twice.  And trusting me?”  he raises his eyebrows, spreads his arms; the oath-breaker scars striping his skin shift over wiry muscle.  “ _Mistake._ ”

Chuck gapes at him, lost and uncomprehending and utterly, miserably hurt.  The Duke waits for a second, then sighs despairingly. 

“Look,” he says.  “You made a good figurehead.  People liked you!  Why I’d even go as far as to say they _loved_ you, with my help.  You can stay in the palace, with some…safety measures in place.  You can even still have your dreamboat, here, if you’re both good.” The Duke puts a hand on Mike’s shoulder—he tenses, a muscle working in his jaw.  Doesn’t acknowledge the touch, just stands there at attention.  “He still wants you.  Don’t you?”

Mike’s eyes flicker up to Chuck’s face, dark and pained.  Away again.  The Duke waits for a second, then sighs dramatically and gives Mike a little shake, like he’s trying to jolt the words loose. 

“I asked you a _question_ , Mr. Chilton.”

“…Yes,” says Mike, sharp and quiet and convulsive.  His throat works for a second, like he’s fighting with himself—when he looks back up, there’s something hard and sure under the pain in his eyes.  “… _Always_.”

There’s so much in that word—blame, forgiveness, hurt—it knocks Chuck back a step.  He opens his mouth to answer, and chokes on his own silence, trying to catch his breath.  If he could just _breathe—_

“Your dragon here is too damn perceptive for his own good sometimes,” the Duke says, and slaps Mike on the back convivially.  “…And too damn stupid the rest of the time.  You know he thought I was a dragon?  What kind of—”

“How long?”

The Duke looks up at him, brows raised.  “Mm?”

“How—how long have you been planning this?”

“Oh, you know.”  The Duke shrugs ostentatiously. “Since our good _friend_ Mr. Chilton here showed up.”  He sighs dramatically and starts back toward the throne.  “I never really planned on taking over, you know.  I was going to let you keep sitting up here.  But…since _apparently—_ ”

“N-no.”

The Duke pauses, still turned away.  “…’No’ _what_.”

“No!”  Chuck repeats, louder this time, and steps forward, drawing up magic, shaking all over.  “I’m not gonna let you—!”

The Duke turns back toward him in a whirl of cloaks, opens his mouth and breaths a jet of brilliant, blue-white fire at him.  Chuck yells and staggers back, stumbles, loses his footing, and a booted foot lands in his stomach as he hits the floor, pinning him there. 

“I'll  _tell_ you what you're going to do.” The Duke leans down over him, eyes glowing through his glasses like two burning coals.  His teeth are too pointed, there’s fire flickering behind them.  “ _Run._ Hunt his flight down to whatever little rathole they crawled to.  Bring me their stones.  Come back without ‘em, well…” he glances back at Mike, clicks his fingers—Mike spasms like it hurts, catching a harsh noise behind clenched teeth.  “I’ve got collateral.  You’ve got two days.”

He takes his foot away.  Chuck gasps for air, can’t fill his lungs—scrambles back, loses his balance, hears the awful, terrified whimpering sound he’s making like it’s coming from a stranger’s mouth. 

“What are you waiting for?” the Duke says, and slams his cane on the ground, a CRACK like a gunshot.  “ _RUN!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "His Majesty accidentally called the Duke "dad" today at the coronation meeting today. He caught himself like two seconds later of course, and I don't think I've ever seen somebody go that red that fast. It's pretty easy to forget he's only a year or two older than me, and then he does something like that.  
> "Nobody said anything about it, and the Duke acted like he didn't hear anything, but I'm pretty sure I saw him put an arm around the king's shoulder right before I left the room. It's kind of weird to think about the Vanquisher letting his guard down with somebody, and it's REALLY weird to think about the Duke caring about somebody other than his reflection. But I'm kind of happy for them, too. I guess everybody needs somebody."  
> \-- Journal entry, dated two days before Lord Vanquisher's coronation as king of Raymanthia.


	12. Dukes and Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Vanquisher faces a dragon he doesn't want to kill, to claim a crown that was wrongfully taken. 
> 
> History repeats itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "People are so happy to be free and at peace, it's like a party every night of the week right now. There are kids tagging the city up, putting the new king's face on every wall that's still standing and painting warnings and stuff. I heard somebody's actually planning this _huge_ mural on the side of one of the buildings near the palace, like, the palace is funding it, it's so big. The place is like six hundred feet tall, and the painting is supposed to cover the whole side.  
>  "People are already saying Lord Vanquisher can see everything that happens in the kingdom, that hes's watching everything in the city and he can see through the paintings. Sounds kind of creepy to me, but a lot of people seem to like feeling looked out for.  
> "If there was ever a painting a mage would be able to see out of, it's that one. They're calling it "the eyes of the king"."
> 
> \-- Letter to an unknown refugee of the former kingdom of Bardonia. Sender and intended recipient unknown.

The city is dark, rain drumming on the buildings and soaking through Chuck’s shoes.  The clothes he’s wearing are red and black and gold, not made for being outdoors; he barely remembers putting them on, through a haze like a fever dream.  He’d been so  _sure,_ so confident.  Fearless and…not himself.

The memory makes another wave of awful shivers rack his body.  The last thing he remembers is casting his warding spell, terror sharpening his thoughts into diamond splinters—  No.  The last thing he remembers is waking up in the Burners’ rooms, curled up on a couch with his shoulders part of the way into Texas’s lap and people worrying over him.  No.  The last thing—the last thing he remembers—  A hand grabbing the back of his neck.  A calm, a peace, a certainty washing over him like a warm wave.   _Everything is fine now.  Trust me._ He’d attacked the Burners.  He’d tried to—

If he looks back at the castle, he should be able to see the broken window, a dark gap in the silvery glass where Dutch smashed through, wings spread wide.  He couldn’t carry the others for long, but he could get them down.  Away from Chuck.  Away from the Duke.

…The _first_ thing he remembers is a feeling like he was being emptied out, an awful, wrenching pull.  Everything flashing red, halos floating in front of his eyes.  Like a migraine, but worse.  The skin on his throat still feels raw.  When he was under, the weight of the collar on his neck had been comforting, cool, a sign of his safety.  He’d been so  _desperate_ not to lose that.  He would have done anything.

There’s nobody on the streets.  Nobody sees their king stagger to a wall and huddle against it, head bowed against the pounding rain.  Nobody’s watching to care as he sinks to his knees on cracked asphalt and buries his face in his arms, shaking with the force of his sobs.

He can’t stay still for long.  A minute, two, five.  Then he pushes himself back up again, puts his head down and keeps on going.

He’s got to find the Burners.

It’s not actually true that Lord Vanquisher can see through the eyes of any of his subjects.  Most of the time he’s happy that’s just a rumor.  Right now it would be pretty freaking handy.  But…that doesn’t mean he’s blind, in his own capitol, in his own kingdom.  Even if the crown has been stolen from him, even if—

Focus.  There’s no time to think about betrayals, no time to hurt over them.  This is a war.  It’s all come down to war again, like he knew it would.

Chuck hurries through the streets, with more purpose now.  He’s had a lot of time to figure out how to shove the way he feels all the way down and move past it.  It can come bite him later, but not right now.  Right now, he can focus on sensation—jagged asphalt unsteady under his feet, cold rain soaking through to his skin.  It makes it easier to forget the part of him that’s whining about how _unfair_ this all is, it _hurts,_ he’s _tired—_   To just put his head down and run, past painted monsters and towering warnings on every wall.  Looking for…

There. 

It’s always seemed vain, to Chuck, having paintings of himself all over the city.  Not just his likeness, like the paintings the Duke had collected in the castle gallery, but _tributes_ ; Lord Vanquisher towering over his painted armies like some kind of god.  Chuck didn’t like them, but they make the people feel safer, and the Duke encouraged it, and now they’re everywhere. 

And this is the biggest, the grandest one he’s seen.  Forty stories tall, covering the entire south-facing side of the second-tallest building in the city.  At its base, there’s a sheltered area of cobbled-together awnings; under those, people have left…gifts.  Not quite prayers, not quite offerings.  Just tokens. Flowers and roughly-shaped dragons carved out of wood and stone.  A glass ball with a swirl of blue and gold worked into it.

It’s weirdly like being at his own grave.  Chuck shudders, but hurries forward under the awning anyway, stepping past the rows of offerings to press a hand against the hem of his own painted cloak.  

Some kinds of magic are older than spell-forms, older than spoken language.  And if everybody believes his likeness watches over the city, maybe he can convince the universe it’s true.  Just for a second.   That’s all he needs, a second.

He barely hears the words he says.  _Allow me your sight, as you have been given my visage—_ the words aren’t as important as the sudden surge of power, the unrestrained flood he has to fight back under control.  He needs to see, that’s all.  Just a trickle of power, just enough.  There’s always a risk to trying a spell like this with no preparation, no test runs, but he doesn’t have time—

It feels kind of like being hit right between the eyes with a baseball bat.  Images shatter out from the point of impact, flooding through his mind. Chuck staggers back, loses the spell and presses his hands over his eyes as they burn; he can see the city from above, from far over the wet, deserted streets.  Five, ten, twenty different pairs of eyes.  Fifty, _too many_ —

A familiar, slim figure.  A lash of dark, red-black hair.  Slipping past a trapped side-street with impossible grace, glancing up and down the alley and then ducking through a doorway.  An old church. 

The image slips away as fast as it came, but it’s enough.  Chuck fights to find his hands, slashes one of them through the air and forces out “— _Enough!_ ”

The images fade.  Chuck lets himself go to his knees, catching his breath in huge, slow gasps.  When he glances up, there’s a dying flare of blue light in the eyes of the watchful mural.  It fades as he watches, and the painting is nothing but a painting again, staring out with blank eyes over the rainy city.

\--

Chuck fought a skirmish in the road the Burners are hiding out on.  He knew it looked familiar when he saw it, but there’s a lot of streets around this city that he’s fought for his life in--it takes some trial and error finding the right one.  By the time he finds the ancient church, night is falling and the rain has turned cold. Chuck huddles down as it pounds relentlessly on his head and shoulders, shaking all over.  His clothes are saturated, dragging him down; his hands and feet feel numb and burning. 

Nobody answers the first time he knocks on the door of the old church.  Chuck leans his forehead against the door for a long second, takes a breath that’s half a sob and then forces himself to straighten up and knocks again, harder this time.  The sound booms in the empty space on the other side.

He feels the trap spell coming a second before it hits him; he doesn’t fight it.  Magical cords weave out of thin air around him and yank his wrists behind his back, tie his legs together from knees to ankles.  Chuck overbalances with a pathetic kind of squeak and topples backwards off his feet, landing hard on his back on the ground.

For a minute he lies there, and he’s pretty sure the Burners aren’t even going to come out and see who knocked on their door.  He can barely bring himself to mind, at this point.   The urge to just lie here and stop moving is overwhelming.  It’s not like he can get any wetter, or any colder.   It’s not like he can fix what he’s messed up, or even make it any worse.  He might as well just lie out here on the ground and stop—

“Oh shit,” says a familiar voice, and a pair of heavy boots splash across the road in the rain.  Chuck pries his swollen eyes open and stares up, and Texas stares back down at him, eyebrows furrowed and hands raised like he’s ready to punch if anything suspicious happens.  “…You ain’t still jacked up, right?”

“Huh?” says Chuck, small and gravelly.   His nose and throat feel stuffy and awful. 

“That thing the Duke did,” says Texas suspiciously.  “—With the red eyes, are we cool?”

Chuck opens his mouth, closes it again, sniffs and nods.  

“…He doesn’t want me anymore,” he says, and the words make his voice do something awful, trembling and cracking.  Texas’s eyes widen a little bit; he glances back over his shoulder, presumably checking with the other Burners, and then sighs and pulls the ropes off Chuck’s wrists.   They untangle easily for him, and unravel into thin air when he drops them.

“Get in here,” he says, and grabs Chuck’s arms, pulling him bodily upright.  Chuck slumps gratefully on the solid breadth of his shoulder, and Texas glances over at him and then hitches him up a little closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

The other Burners lower their weapons as Texas comes inside.  Julie’s eyes flash dragon-green for a second, scanning over Chuck, and then she thins her lips and tucks her boomerang away again. 

“Where's Mike?" she says with no preamble, voice hard.

“Mike traded—he wanted—” He’s safe, now, and knowing that makes all the hurt and shock and betrayal rise back up in Chuck’s chest.  He can’t breathe, his throat and chest and eyes are burning, god.  Mike’s face, his  _face,_ the look in his eyes.  “I couldn’t stop him, ‘m so sorry it’s all my—all my fault—”

“Not all of it,” says Julie, and her eyes are like flint, her comfort is merciless, and that makes it better somehow.  “I bet Mike walked right into this.   _Dammit._   I’m gonna kill him.”

“But…”  Chuck swallows weakly, pressing—like somebody who can’t stop poking at a wound to see when the pain is coming.  “—But if I’d stopped him—Mike never would’ve—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Julie snaps.  “You were the bait.  Nobody asks a worm before they put a hook through it.”

“Julie,” says Dutch, pained.

“Did the Duke collar him?”  Julie says.

Chuck glances up miserably and meets her eyes, and he knows she can read the answer in his expression.  Julie’s hands clench at her sides, and for a second Chuck thinks she’s going to punch him.  But instead she just nods once, sharply.

“The Duke called off all his dragons,” Texas chips in.  “We figured he got both of you!  But he ain’t, so Texas still comes out on top!” he frowns.  “…Even if we got you back, and not Mike.”

“ _Texas,_ ” says Dutch.

“No, it’s fine, it’s—he’s right.”  Chuck hugs himself, rubs his palms over his own arms.  He still feels awful, and not just emotionally.   His whole body feels chilled and sore since that red light drained out of him, like he’s recovering from a terrible fever.  His soaking wet clothes aren’t helping, either—the building is cool and damp and waves of cramps and shivers keep running through his muscles.  “You’d be…better off.  If you had Mike.”

“No,” says Julie.  There’s something different about her—the charming, bright-eyed lady knight from the palace is gone.  There’s something scary about the way the shadows fall on her face, the blankness of her voice and the hardness in her eyes.  The way she holds herself, head high and lips thin, like a queen.  She looks more royal than Chuck ever felt, that’s for sure.  “Mike is barely more than human, right now.  We have most of his power, and he doesn’t have any training in magic.  I don’t want to fight him, but he can’t call down lightning.”

“And we know his weaknesses,” Dutch says quietly. 

“Yes, and so did the Duke,” says Julie.  She’s still got that hard, half-wild look in her eyes.  “He’s obviously done this before.”

“…Yeah.”  Chuck takes a deep, deep breath.  “I think…those other dragons, those were his.  His rings…”

“Dragon stones.”

Chuck nods weakly, eyes dropping to the floor instead of the disbelieving, frustrated faces around him.  “It’s us,” he says.  “It was us, for Mike, I-I bet he did the same thing to the others.”   It feels…weird, and awful, talking about this, but he has to.  There’s no reason to defend the Duke, now.  There’s nothing to defend. 

 “That wasn’t how they used to teach it,” Julie says.  “Kings were supposed to either wipe out the flight or split them up, sell the dragons to other states and kill the others.”

“Julie,” says Dutch weakly.  Julie glances at him and then away again, closing her eyes for a second and rubbing the bridge of her nose. 

“…How many?”

“Dragons?”

“Rings.”

“Oh, uh…”  The Duke talked about it for the first time, when Chuck was under.  Took the glamor off his hands and gloated, like he’s probably been wanting to for years.  Chuck presses his hands into his burning eyes, trying to remember.  God, he feels…really, really bad.  “…Six…seven?  Seven, I think.  Seven, now.  With…with Mike’s.”

“Two from each dragon, probably.”  Julie nods. 

“What did Mike give you?”  Texas says immediately. 

“Uh…”  It feels awful to admit it, some kind of guilty secret.  Chuck swallows hard.  “I didn’t wanna take—”

“But you did,” Julie cuts over him.  “Because you wanted to know, and you didn’t want him to be upset.  Right?”

Chuck can’t meet her eyes.  Julie nods sharply.  “So what stone does the Duke have now?”

“Strength,” says Chuck quietly.  He sniffs, shoves his hands under his thighs and shivers, trying to get the feeling back in his fingers.  “Sorry.”

“Seriously?”  Texas groans.  “Why didn’t he give  _Texas_ —?”

“He shouldn’t have been giving anybody anything!” Dutch says, frustrated.  “The Duke probably coulda knocked him over with a feather, we thought—there was no way he’d make another one, he didn’t have anything _left!_ ”

“Well apparently—”

“Texas woulda been _awesome!_ ”

“You already had one, Texas, can you just—”

The bickering rises into incomprehensible noise, beating on Chuck’s aching skull like waves.  He slumps in a cracked pew in his growing puddle of icy water, stares into nothing and…thinks.  About the collar the Duke put on him, and dragon magic and soul-splitting spells.  About magical theory, which has always come so much easier to him than talking to people does.  About dragons and collars.  Dragons and collars…

“I’ve got...”  Chuck starts, barely above a whisper.   The Burners are still arguing—they don’t even hear him.  Chuck takes a deep breath, raises his voice and winces as it cracks.  “I-I’ve got an idea!”

Everybody turns to him, glaring.  Chuck flinches back, then gathers himself and starts to talk.  Fast and shaky at first, then steadier as he goes.  Texas looks baffled, but Julie and Dutch look skeptical and then interested and then thoughtful.  Like they’re listening.

When he’s done, everybody sits silently for a minute or two, thinking it over. 

“…That’s risky stuff,” Dutch says finally, quiet and grim.   “You seriously think that would work?” 

“I don’t—I don’t know, it’s just a theory—”

“Well how does that help us, then?”  Julie snaps.  Chuck cringes, stomach knotting miserably.  “That’s a lot of— _nothing!_   We can’t go into this with half a plan and—”

“Wait, so, no, that ain’t cool though!”  Texas is saying at the same time.  “You wanna take—”

“Guys,” Dutch says flatly.  He’s sitting very still, face in one hand, back bent.  He looks so  _tired,_ and his shifting tattoos are motionless and dull.  “Give it a rest, okay?”

“ _You_  give it a rest!”  Texas snarls, and “— _What did you just say_?!”  Julie is saying at the same time, voice rising with anger.  Dutch raises his head, looks them all over and sighs.  Pushes himself up, very slowly, like moving hurts.

"...None of us had a plan either," he says.  "It's not our fault Mike's gotta sacrifice himself for people every time he turns around.  And…I don’t know if it’s a good plan either, we gotta talk about it, but Chuck’s gonna freeze to death if we don't get him warmed up already."

Chuck stiffens as everybody turns and looks at him.  Some part of him immediately tightens up with fear at being read like that; he wants to sit up straight and hold his head high and insist there’s nothing wrong with him, he’s fine—  But he’s covered in goosebumps, he's shivering all over, his teeth keep chattering.  He feels small, and pathetic, and maybe he looks it because when the other Burners look him up and down some of the tension in the air defuses.  

"Yeah," says Texas.  "Sure, yeah, cool.  Whatever."  He comes over, crouches down in front of Chuck and looks him over.  "Anybody got a cloak?"  

Dutch wordlessly pulls his cloak off his shoulders and tosses it over.  Texas throws it around Chuck's shoulders, pulls it snugly around his neck.  His chest is very broad, this close, his hands are big and solid and warm.  For a second, Chuck's shivers have nothing to do with the rain.  He has to work not to lean into the touch, catching his breath a little as Texas's hands trace down his arms and then pull away.  

"Hold it out," Texas says.  "No, like--yeah, cool.  Okay, now hold still a sec."

He takes a deep breath and blows out a hot stream of dry, fiery air.  Chuck jumps in shock, and then melts into the heat, groaning faintly.  It feels so good to be warm, he could cry.  Texas rests a hand on each of his knees, bracing him in place, takes another breath and keeps going until Chuck is slumped under the dry cloak, damp and warm and still sniffling.  

"Thank you," he says fervently, and scrubs at his face.  If he lets his bangs down so they hang in his face, he can pretend the wetness on his cheeks is just from his soaked hair.  He pulls the tie out of his hair with trembling fingers, combing his fingers through it instead of looking up at them.  "Thanks so much."

“Whatever,” says Texas again, but he sounds just a little bit less annoyed this time.  “Man, Mike told you that Duke guy was bad news.” 

It feels like actually being stabbed.  Chuck flinches, shrinking in on himself.  Julie reaches out with a booted foot and shoves hard between Texas’s shoulderblades, frowning disapprovingly.  

"Not the time, Tex?"

"Uh,  _totally_ the time,  _Clarissa?_ "  Texas rolls his eyes at her.  "Seein' as how Jerk of Jerktroit just totally stabbed everybody in the back!"

"Sorry," says Chuck, pathetically quiet and not enough.  "...'M really sorry."

"What for?"  Texas glowers at him.  "You didn't do nothin'."

He says it aggressively enough to make Chuck flinch, and then the words sink in and a cautious kind of hope clashes with the nasty snarl of self-hatred in Chuck's chest.  Texas turns away and pushes himself up, stomping over towards the Burners' packs and digging aimlessly through them.  Chuck stares after him for a second, and then glances over at Julie, questioning.  She glances after Texas, then shrugs.  

"So, what are we doin'?"  Dutch seems to have resolved to keep the ball rolling no matter what; he sits forward, chin jutting stubbornly.  "I know--Chuck's plan sounds totally crazy.  But do we have a better one?"

A gloomy kind of silence falls.  The Burners stare at the ground or the rain-streaked windows, avoiding each other's eyes.

"Right," says Dutch.  "So.  How are we gonna get inside?"

A weird feeling fills Chuck's chest--hope mixed with amazement mixed with terror.  "You--seriously?"

"You may not be the king right now, but we still swore to follow you,” Dutch says, and when he shrugs the color in his tattoos spreads and brightens just a little, lighting cautiously back up.  “So.  How do we pull off this big, crazy plan of yours, man?”

“Texas ain’t got a single broken word on this and he’s not gonna start now,” Texas says, and gestures broadly at his chest.  “You can look if you wanna.”

“Not the time, Texas,” says Julie, but her lips quirk a little bit.  “Keep your shirt on.”

“Oh, uh,” says Chuck, and pulls his eyes away from the visible shift of Texas’s pecs under his shirt as he flexes again.  “Yeah, probably, um…  No, the time does not allow.  But.  The offer is appreciated.”

“Oh, well, if his majesty does not require your display at this immediate moment then far be it from us,” Julie says, teasing, and it takes a raise of her eyebrows for Chuck to realize he flipped back into formal without thinking about it.  He gives her a pleading kind of look, face hot.  Julie shakes her head, actually smiling now.  “So.  Tactics.”

\--

There’s a feeling, to being glamoured.  A really good spell, strong enough to turn you into a faint shimmer in the air, feels like a soft, constant vibration.  It's unnerving, and kind of ticklish.  

Chuck doesn't feel much like laughing.

"That's gotta be them up there," Dutch's voice says, from somewhere off and to Chuck's left.  His hand is tight on Chuck's cloak, keeping them together.  "The dragons.  Right?"

They're outside the castle walls.  The gates aren't guarded, not by the normal human guards--but there are three figures standing outside of it, watching the street with narrowed eyes.  A tall woman with a long, dark ponytail, a man with dark skin and dark glasses, and a second man in a ragged shirt and a crooked bandanna.  The first two are standing quiet and still, not speaking to each other; the third is prowling up and down the road outside the gates.  It's not hard to remember--the memory of the massive shapes crashing through his city is burned into his brain in lines of fire.  In the bright, dawning light of early autumn, scales glitter on the dragons' cheeks.  

"Definitely the dragons," Chuck breathes.  

"Which one was the biggest?"  Dutch whispers back, and Chuck squints, then points, then remembers he's invisible and clears his throat awkwardly.  

“…Jet dragon,” he murmurs, and sizes up the three humanoid shapes standing in front of the gate.  “…I think that’s him on the left.  Black scales, sunglasses.”

“I see him.”  There’s a faint pop, like Dutch is cracking his knuckles.  “I’m gonna try to get him out into the city.  I’ve got an idea.”

“There was a topaz,” Julie’s voice says.  “I’ve been looking into Topaz dragons for a while now.  I’ll take her.  Texas, can you handle the Garnet?”

“Texas can handle the crap outta any dragon you want!” Texas shout-whispers belligerently.  Everybody shushes him urgently and he huffs and goes on, quieter.  “…Which one’s that?”

“Gotta be that one on the move,” Dutch says.  “See him?  He’s still got his horns out.”

“On it.”  

"Man," is the last thing Chuck hears Dutch say, already fainter as his footsteps move away.  "If we make it out of this alive, Mike's gonna owe us  _big-_ time."

Julie attacks first, with a sudden fan of illusionary doubles that come running out of the side-streets and head full-tilt toward the gate.  One of them throws out a hand, and magic whips around her, flaring around her head in a glowing halo.  A glittering threat display straight out of one of Chuck’s papers.  The woman in the middle of the gate immediately moves--and she's  _fast,_ so fast she's almost impossible to follow.  She hits one version of Julie, and the illusion breaks and splits into a dizzying cloud of glowing fragments, clinging to her as she tries to shake them off. 

The man in the black suit starts to move after her, then stiffens abruptly and raises his head, sniffing the air.  Chuck can see Dutch shimmer out of nowhere and spread a huge pair of wings, brightly-colored illusions spinning across them in mesmerizing kaleidoscopes.  

Texas isn't subtle.  He just comes pounding up the road and tackles the third dragon, laying into him with both fists.  The garnet dragon yowls and grapples with him, then headbutts him hard and throws him off.  Texas kicks out, gets him in the knee and then rolls to his feet and takes off down the nearest side-road, throwing punches at whatever he can reach as the garnet dragon howls in frustration and follows after him.

Chuck slips past the jet dragon as he manifests his own wings and stalks in Dutch's direction--narrowly misses another one of the topaz's lightning-fast charges as Julie's doubles circle and giggle mockingly--and then he ducks through the gate and he's in, jogging through the courtyard.  Somewhere behind him there's a howling, sawing roar and the faintly echoing sound of Texas yelling a battle-cry.    If the sudden heavy wave of magic is any indication, the garnet just transformed.  

Chuck puts his head down and runs faster.

The throne room is clean and quiet and brightly lit; in the rising sun, it looks deceptively idyllic.  The sunlight bounces down through the high windows in broad pools of gold, laid across the tiled floor.  The throne gleams in the light, dark wood lit up rich red-brown.  

Outside, a dragon roars again.  Chuck stumbles a little bit, fear shooting up his spine—but the noise is far away, out in the city, and no dragons come bursting through the doorway.  He spares a second and a flash of magic to drop a pre-made trap in the entrance to the throne room, something to ensnare anybody who tries to come in after him.  Then he keeps moving, sticking close to the sides of the room, drawing his sword as silently as he can.

The Duke is sitting in the throne, like Chuck knew he would be.  It looks like he used to be lounging, not paying attention—now his eyes are fixed on the windows at the head of the throne room, on the sudden movement and noise of fighting outside.  Mike is kneeling next to the throne, so still Chuck almost misses him at first; his eyes are almost closed, and his head is bowed and heavy.  There’s something terrifying about how blank his face is, like he’s shut off.

Chuck expected both of those things.  What he didn’t expect is the figure standing in front of the throne.

“—Where they came from, or how you can hope to control them!”  Ruby is saying as Chuck edges closer.  "And I am not the only one you will find who feels so, your Grace."

"Shut up a second," says the Duke.  Outside, another dragon roars; this time Mike's head jerks up a little, eyes dark through his bangs.  The Duke's eyes narrow over his glasses.  "...Mr. Chilton," he says, "Do you know anything about all this noise?"

"... _No,_ " Mike grits out, barely audible.

"What are they...saying?"

Mike's head twitches just a little, like under his bangs he's rolling his eyes.  "They're not talking," he says.  "They're angry.  We're just.  Angry."

He drops his head, going still again.  The Duke frowns down at him for a second or two, and then snorts and looks back at Ruby.  "Go collect my guards from...wherever I left them," he says.  "I have an  _inkling_ this has something to do with everybody's favorite lizard, here."  He drops a hand on Mike's head, ruffles up his hair roughly and lets go with a shove that makes Mike sway in place.  "The Burners are out there, somewhere.  Find them for me."

Shit,  _no_.  If they mobilize the guard to support the Duke's dragons, there's no way the Burners will be able to hold them off, especially not in the city center.  This was the final battleground of the Raymanthian Revolution, the site of every training exercise, and the militia knows it like the backs of their hands.  The Burners are good, but not that good.  Chuck speeds up, moving as quickly and quietly as he can under the noise of the battle outside.  

He's almost to the throne when Mike's head rises, eyes narrowing.  His eyes rake across the throne room, and Chuck knows he's invisible but Mike is still looking almost straight at him.  For a second Mike is still, just staring.  Then, suddenly, the collar around his neck gives a sharp, metallic ring and Mike jerks all over.  "He's.  Here," he grits out, like every word is painful.  The collar rattles again, metal visibly heating, and Mike sucks in a breath, teeth bared in a grimace of pain.  "He's  _here!_   To.  Help me.  Stop you."

"Who is?"  the Duke says, and god, it never even occurred to him, did it?  How long ago did he write Chuck off as a coward?

"...I am," says Lord Vanquisher, and steps forward into the morning light.  The illusion shreds away from him as he pulls magic up to his scars, and for just a second the Duke's expression of absolute shock is amazing to see. For a second—just a _second_ —he almost looks scared.

Then his expression shifts, settles, into a familiar expression of affront and fury. 

" _You,_ " he says.  “I told you to _run._ ”

“Sire?”  Ruby’s face lights up.  “Sire!  My god, I had not thought to see you again in this living world.  We all heard…” she glances up at the throne, at Mike’s bent, motionless figure. 

“Sir Ruby,” says Chuck, and Ruby stops abruptly at the tone of his voice, suddenly uncertain as she takes in his expression.  “Please gather the royal guard.  The Duke has committed high treason.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Nobody’s listening to you here,  _imposter_ ,” sneers the Duke.  Mike’s head is rising, slow like his body doesn’t want to obey.  Now that Chuck's closer he can see a bruise splashed across one of Mike's cheekbones; Chuck can almost imagine the sound it would make as the Duke cracked him across the face with the end of his cane.  “Chilton.  Take him out.”

“Sir Ruby,” says Chuck, and draws his sword.  “Go.”

“I…”  Ruby glances back and forth, uncertain, hand on her sword.  "But..."

"Ruby," says Chuck, raw and pleading.  "Please.  Get out of here."

Ruby's eyes fix on his face; she hesitates another second, and then, slowly, her expression settles.  Her lips thin and her dark brows draw in, determined.  "No," she says.  "I will not leave my king."

God, of all the times for loyalty.  "Knights weren't made for mage duels," says Chuck urgently.  "I need you to  _go."_

Ruby is just opening her mouth to answer when the faintest flicker of light sparks at the corner of Chuck's eye.  It's more muscle memory and instinct than conscious thought; he throws a shield spell up around himself and Ruby, just in the nick of time.  Ruby yells in shock and draws her sword as fire hits the ward an inch from her face and explodes outward in a whirlwind of sparks and hot, whipping wind.  The Duke growls and then pauses to draw another deep, burning breath; there's a red stone glowing on one of his rings.  Chuck makes a split-second decision and drops his own ward, diving forward next to Ruby instead.  Ruby glances back at him and then staggers as Chuck grabs her arm and pushes her back, away from the fresh burst of fire.  

"You are a  _liability_ here!" he snaps, cold and formal with no time for kindness, and sees the hurt and the understanding in her eyes.  "Go,  _now!_ "

"Yes, Lord Vanquisher!"  Ruby backs away, sword still drawn.  "Are the dragons--?"

"Enemies, but not by choice," says Chuck, and sees Mike look up, the expression on his face twisted and hard to read.  "They need to be subdued.   _Only_ subdued!"

"Sir!"  says Ruby, and runs.  The Duke bites off the fire with an angry snarl and slashes his cane through the air instead.  His own ward rises, crackling and electric, warping the air between them.  An impasse.  

"What do you think you're doing here?" he says, voice hoarse with heat.  "Did I not teach you  _anything?_ "

"I'm not letting you do this,” Chuck says.

"Did you listen to me at  _all_?"

"How did you take those stones?"

There's a sudden, strangled noise--Mike just jerked, half-rising from his knees.  "Chuck," he says urgently, "--Dragon magic--he's got a--"

“Ah, no,” says the Duke sharply.  “What did I say?  You got no business giving him hints.  Don’t forget who you belong to, now, you’ll get yourself in  _trouble_  again.”

Mike twitches, half-turning to glare back, and Chuck’s heart gives a painful double-beat as he sees why Mike was moving so gingerly.  There are bloody gashes torn through the back of his shirt, crisscrossing lines of welted skin that can only have been put there by a whip. 

“You know, kid, I thought you were smarter than this,” says the Duke grimly.  “I was tryin’ to get you outta here, y’know?  But no, you gotta force my hand.”  He snaps his fingers.  “…What are you waiting for,  _Smiling Dragon?_ ” 

A flash of light flares in the collar.  Mike jerks forward with a choked gasp, stumbling. “I…don’t…” he rasps.  His voice sounds awful, choked and rough.  There’s something distant and unfocused about his eyes as they wander over Chuck’s face.  “I’m not.  Don’t want.  T’hurt you.”

“Mm, yes, but nobody asked what you wanted,” says the Duke.  “If you make me come down there and deal with him myself…well, I don’t  _need_ him alive…”

“No!”  Mike says, louder and clearer, and his eyes snap into focus.  He breathes—again, deeper, present.  “Chuck—you gotta run, I have to—”

“Sorry,” says Chuck.  “I can’t.”

 “You _have to_.” 

“Oh man, I didn’t say I didn’t want to!”  Chuck laughs, high and cracked and nervous, not bothering to pretend his voice isn’t shaking.  “I _really_ want to.  But I _can’t,_ Mikey.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you.”  But he’s getting visibly more feral-looking as Chuck watches, teeth lengthening, pupils going slitted.  He doesn’t have much dragon left in him, but it’s enough.  It’s more than enough.  And here Chuck is again, hand shaking on his sword, skin prickling with shivers of terror, heart pounding and eyes burning.  Facing down the dragon.

“I don’t want to hurt you either,” says Chuck, and tries to smile.  “I’ll try not to, okay?”

Mike doesn’t even answer, because just then the Duke frowns and clicks his cane on the ground.  The noise rings around the room, strangely too loud, and some part of Mike—something about him just… _leaves_.  Some presence behind his eyes.  He makes an inhuman noise, a rattling, reptilian hiss, and starts forward—

Visual distortion is easier than calling down lightning when you get the hang of it.  Chuck shoves a hand into his pocket, fumbling, whips a hand through the air and dispels the illusion he’s projecting.  Mike rears back as the distance between them snaps like a rubber band, and Chuck is suddenly within arm’s reach, one hand drawn back, a golden-green stone in his palm.

"Sorry," says Chuck, and slams Julie’s stone into Mike's chest.

* * *

 

* * *

 Mike staggers, eyes going wide—magic jolts up Chuck's arm, a snap of power like he just touched a live wire.  There's a flash of bright, golden-green light and the worn fabric of Mike’s T-shirt crackles and burns as Julie's stone splashes over his chest like liquid and then melts into him.  

Mike stumbles and falls.  Chuck dives past him as he hits the ground on his knees—can't stop, can't afford to see if he's okay—reaching for the flash of bright blue in the middle of the Duke's crown.  The Duke backpedals, raises a hand with a glowing blue-green ring on it and  _screams._ The sound is deafening, all-encompassing, but a second later it's almost drowned out by a shattering  _CRASH_  as every piece of glass in the throne room comes down at once.  Chuck loses precious seconds glancing back, throwing out a hand toward Mike's trembling figure—the glass falling around Mike turns to dust as a golden shield flashes over him.  Glass cuts stinging gouges in Chuck’s back and shoulders as he huddles in on himself, struggling to maintain the ward.

He's still looking at Mike when the Duke slams into his back.  Chuck plants his feet and raises an arm in front of his face on instinct, feels something hard and thin bite into his forearm.  Snaps his head back, hits something hard and bony, breathes out a harsh huff of white-hot fire.  There's a high whine of stressed wire, and the garrote snaps.

Chuck has half a second to pull away, struggling to get free of the Duke's grip, before an answering wave of heat burns past his shoulder, enveloping him in the stink of scorching fabric.  The Duke makes a furious noise, almost a snarl, half a laugh.  "Did you  _fireproof_ yourself?!" he pants, and his hands drag at Chuck's face and throat, snag a handful of his hair and yank, trying to get at his eyes.  Chuck twists, head down, and gets an elbow in the man's stomach with a heavy  _thud_.  

He can’t think after that—there’s no time.  Just a blur of fear and pain and anger.  It’s not a pretty fight.  Kings should fight in noble duels, in honorable combat, but the Duke’s the one wearing the crown, and they don’t fight with honor, here.  They might as well be animals, clawing at each other’s eyes and throats, magic flickering between them in formless jolts of blinding light and electricity.  Chuck snatches at the crown, gets a handful of the Duke’s hair instead and yanks—barely twists to one side as the Duke howls in pain and fury and twists like an angry cat, trying to get a knee in wherever he can. 

A second later Chuck yells and lets go on instinct, covering his face as another burst of stolen dragon-fire roars over him.  He forces himself to dive forward, directly into it, reaching blindly for the glint of blue in the crown.  "Give—me—the—" he wheezes, high and cracked with terrified hurt.  "I don't wanna— _hurt you_!"

"Didn't I teach you  _anything_?!" The Duke growls, and snaps at him with teeth that are way too long and way too sharp, scars lighting up on his palms.  Chuck catches the flicker-flash of lightning, just barely in time, and calls up another barrier as quick as blinking as a snap of electricity comes straight for his face.  His forehead is bleeding, there’s blood and sweat in his eyes.  He feels them burning, feels the scars on his arms ache from channeling so much magic so quickly as he calls up a concussive shockwave and knocks the Duke back.  Feels his heart pounding in his throat, feels—

— _the hairs on the back of his neck—_

He throws himself to one side just in time as Mike's claws tear through the air where he was just standing.  Mike lands on all fours with a grunt, and Chuck reaches into his pocket and fumbles another stone into his hand.  Its power is hot against his palm, humming and flickering in his chest.

"Take him down!"The Duke howls, and Mike pushes himself up, staggers and swipes out again.  His claws rake just short of Chuck’s stomach, almost gutting him.  Chuck ducks away from the wild swing and pushes in close, too close for Mike to claw at him again, draws back an arm—

" _Don't,_ " Mike rasps, soft and desperate.  Chuck falters for a second, staring at him; Mike's eyes are wide and bright, an inhuman shade of yellow-green, and he looks so young and  _scared._   "I won't be— _me_ , I'll hurt you, Chuck don't _—_ "

"Sorry," Chuck gasps back, helpless and terrified, and slams the second stone squarely into Mike's chest.

* * *

* * *

The rune on the back of his neck jolts his senses just a split second too late this time.  The Duke is moving fast, too fast, a trail of fiery red-orange streaking behind him.  Chuck spins around as Mike crumples again, and the Duke's cane hits him right in the cheekbone with dizzying force, throwing him off-balance. 

For a second, everything goes white.  Then he’s landing on the floor next to Mike, hard and graceless, glass digging at his arms and gashing his legs.  He can see Mike’s face, from here; he’s on all fours, fire trickling between his fangs on every harsh breath.  It’s true dragon-fire, now, moving like no natural fire should—clinging to his skin, white-hot and heavy.  Mike’s eyes are wide and wild, pupils as thin as the edge of a knife. 

Chuck flips onto his back, starts to push himself up and then yells in pain as the Duke’s boot comes down on his chest with bones-creaking force.  His ribs throb, shards of glass dig into his back.  Chuck chokes out an awful noise, feels blood soak hot through the back of his shirt—the Duke is drawing back his leg, about to stamp down again.

"Get  _off_ me!" Chuck screams, and it's high and scared and pathetic but there's magic in the words, desperate free-form spellwork in every syllable.  The Duke is thrown bodily back, hits the ground with a yell of pain and lies there, wheezing and curled into a ball.  There's a ringing clang, a clatter of broken glass, and the crown rolls away from him, dragon stone glinting at its center.

Chuck staggers upright, eyes fixed on the glint of sky-blue, and then reels and almost falls as the spell's energy-debt tears through him.  His head spins, every muscle seems to be melting like hot wax.  His legs buckle under him, and he barely feels fresh cuts tear into his knees as his heart roars in his ears. Mike is getting up behind him, gasping fire, and Chuck's fireproofing spell is half-tested and experimental and the Duke is pushing himself up, teeth bared in a furious sneer, and this is  _bad._

Chuck gets his feet under him, moving on pure terror and adrenaline, and dives for Mike.  Mike looks up at him, lashes out with his claws, tears a slice into Chuck's upper arm and then convulses as Dutch's stone splatters across his skin and melts into his chest.  His spine arches, his nails drag at the floor.

* * *

 

* * *

 Chuck can hear tearing cloth, feel a gust of wind against his back as he turns away and throws himself toward the fallen crown.  The Duke is just getting his breath back, cradling one arm close to his chest, white with pain; vast, black wings fold out from his back, tearing through his shirt.  He pushes himself up, wings beating and fluttering to right him, and then dives for the crown as well.  Chuck glances back, hears himself make an awful noise of terror, and slams another shockwave into the ground right between them.  The Duke turns his back at the last second, and Chuck hears him scream in pain as glass tears at his stolen wings.  Somewhere outside, as Chuck dives for the crown, a dragon roars in agony. 

No time to worry about that now.  Glass cuts Chuck’s knees, rains down on his head and shoulders, but there’s warm gold under his hands.  He tries to pull at the stone, wrench it loose, but its surface is flawless and his hands are cut and bloody, fingers slippery.  

" _Bend,_ " he wheezes, forcing power into the words, "— _made as mine and mine again to unmake—_ " the gold melts between his fingers, splattering on the courtroom floor.  The stone lights up to his touch and Mike lets out an awful, strangled groan behind him.  A flood of strength rushes through Chuck’s body, almost enough to make up for the sudden wave of dizzy weakness washing over him; he's so tired it feels like nausea, all of a sudden.  His muscles are full of foreign strength, but his mind is reeling.  

"No!" The Duke yells, and Chuck turns back to him, gasping, sure he's going to see the Duke with another spell in his hands—the Duke's not looking at him.  His eyes are fixed behind Chuck, and they're wide with something awfully close to terror.  "You  _stupid_ boy, you're gonna get us both killed!"

Mike makes an awful, awful noise, an inhuman groan with a reptilian chitter underneath it.   The Duke grits his teeth and snatches up his cane, fingers sliding on the bloody metal. 

 _“Get out of the way,_ ” he snaps, and it’s a tone Chuck has learned to obey.  For a second he flinches back, and the Duke points his cane at Mike, magic boiling in the air around him.  “Get out of the way!  If I don’t collar him now, we _both_ die!”

“You already collared him!”  Chuck pushes himself up, clutching the stone to his chest.  “I’m not—gonna let you—”

“I collared some whelp who was four stones down!”  The Duke is still casting, weaving spell-forms, leaving a trail of burning electricity in the air behind his cane.  “I didn’t think some _damn fool_ would come and—”

“I know!”  Chuck wails, and he doesn’t have to fake the tearful terror in his voice.  The Duke glances at him, and just for a second he meets Chuck’s eyes over the top of his glasses, fear recognizing fear.  Just for a second, his hand falters.  “I’m sorry, Duke, I was just scared, I’m sorry—!”

The thunderclap Chuck casts is so strong it throws every shard of glass in the hall dozens of feet into the air.  The Duke goes flying back off his feet and Chuck turns and sprints away from him.  Mike is barely on his feet, struggling to stay upright; as Chuck watches, the collar around his neck cracks, warps, crumbling into rust.  Mike gasps in air and then looks up and sees Chuck reaching for him; he twists away with a terrible noise of fear, flinching behind his hands like he’s waiting for his king to strike him down.  Chuck wants to tell him—it’s okay, it’ll be okay, _god_ he hopes it’ll be okay. 

“Sorry,” he says instead, and pushes forward past Mike’s clawing hands, past the hanging shards of glass that are still spread in the air.  Close enough to get under his guard, close enough to grab one of his wrists.  Close enough—

Mike’s teeth are hot and jagged, gashing Chuck’s lip open.  Fire washes over his lips, and before the blood can even flow it's seared dry.  Mike’s mouth goes slack for a second, lips soft with shock; he makes a quiet, desperate sound into the kiss, wings flaring around them.

And then the blue stone sinks into his chest. 

The kickback of power throws Chuck entirely off his feet.  The palm of his hand feels like somebody pressed a red-hot iron to it, and he’s fleetingly glad he can’t see it as the smell of burning meat snags at his senses.  Everything is moving slow.  He’s in midair, floating, falling back—

His skull bounces on the tile with a sickening CRACK.  It rings through his whole body, whiting out his vision with the force of it.  Glass gouges his back and side as he lies where he fell, gasping for breaths of air so hot it seems to be burning his face and his lungs.  The air is so thick with magic he can taste it as he breathes.  Mike _screams—_

There’s a sharp flare of light, a whipcrack of power.  Mike’s scream cuts off abruptly, choking.  Glass clatters as a body hits the ground with a heavy thud. 

For a minute or two, there’s breathless silence.  Pieces of glass are still falling from far, far overhead, clinking like distant music.  Chuck tries to take a deep breath—his left side gives a vicious throb.  Familiar feeling—broken rib.  He tries to roll over onto his other side gingerly; his head swims every time he blinks.  Also familiar—concussion.   He has a spell of minor healing scarred into one of his hands, on the palm, on the muscle at the base of his thumb.  But even when he manages to raise one of his hands he can’t call more than a spark to it. 

“Mike,” he mumbles, slurred through bloody lips.  He can’t hear Mike anymore.  Did it work?  “Talk—talk t’me.”

“He can’t hear you,” says the Duke’s voice.  Chuck twitches in shock—the Duke sounds ragged, close by.  Glass clinks.  “…’S not gonna hear you, until he wakes up.  And, hwell, he’s not going to wake up until I drop the spell.”  He grunts—fabric tears.  “I can’t collar him now, but I can damn well make sure he doesn’t take me out with the rest of your stupid court.”

Glass shifting.  Chuck tries to get up, tries to find some reserve of untapped magic, tries to find the strength to move.  Finds nothing.  He’s so tired he feels sick, hurting and scared and so— _sad._ Every heartbeat, a heavy, pitiful struggle behind his bruised ribs.  He can’t.  He can’t do this anymore.  This was supposed to work, to set Mike free.  It wasn’t supposed to go like this.  None of this is right.

“I’ll get outta here, sound a couple alarms and then let the spell drop so he can raise hell,” says the Duke.  He sounds almost conversational, except for the edge of exhaustion to his voice.  “…You saw how far gone he is.  He’s gonna _kill_ you, kid.  Might not be pretty.”

There’s a hot sting at the corners of Chuck’s eyes—something hot and wet on his face that isn’t blood.  He can’t bring himself to care.  The Duke’s footsteps get closer.  A sound of tearing cloth, more glass crunching under his boots.

“…If I leave you for him, anyway.”

The Duke is covered in tacky blood, limping badly as he slowly fades into the hazy edge of Chuck’s vision.  He’s got a shard of glass in one hand, as long as his forearm with one end wrapped in a chunk of his torn sleeve.  He puts a foot on Chuck’s bicep as he struggles to raise himself up again; forces his arm flat to the ground and pins it there.  “…I told you I liked you, kid, and I’d _hate_ to see what that beast of yours is gonna do to this place once I’m gone.  So, I’ll make this quick.”

Chuck jerks his other arm, manages a weak spark of magic—it would barely have been enough to sting, but it’s bright and sudden enough to make the Duke twitch and duck out of the way.  There’s a rush of ozone-hot magic in the air and the Duke’s head snaps up at the sound of shifting glass, the rush of harsh, panting breaths from the place where Mike was lying.  Chuck tries to grab for his ankle with his free hand; the Duke glances down at him with wide, wild eyes and then brings a foot down on Chuck’s chest hard enough to drive the air out of his lungs.

“ _Stop it,_ ” he growls, and holds out a hand toward Mike’s unseen body, eyes narrowing and bloody teeth bared with effort.  The shift of glass settles again.  The rasping, animal noises fade away.

“…Stop,” the Duke says again, and lowers his hand.  Every word is deliberate now, like he’s struggling to keep his focus.  “Just do your whole kingdom a favor and go down with some _dignity_.  It can be just you or it can be the whole city.”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Chuck wheezes.  An awful, pathetic little gasp.  “Please don’t.”

The Duke’s lips thin, his eyes flicker away.  “Hold still,” he says, hard and even.  “I’ll finish this fast.”  He pauses, just for a second, considering.  “…unless you wanna pull the same deal your Smiling Dragon did,” he says thoughtfully, and kneels down, one foot still pinning Chuck’s arm, pressing the glass against Chuck’s throat.  “You take my collar back.  We get outta here, we figure it out, and this time you _do_ as you’re _told._ ”  He pushes the glass in hard on those words.  His glasses are gone, god knows where, his face is bloody and cold. 

There aren’t any words, there’s no answering.  Chuck just stares up at him, lips pressed into a shaking line.  There are silent sobs trembling through his bloody body, but he’s not letting them out, and he’s not going to beg. Not anymore, not for that.  Never.

The Duke meets his eyes, holds them.  Neither of them says a word, but they understand each other.  Maybe more than they ever have before.

“…Fine,” says the Duke, cold and disappointed.  “I'm actually disappointed, you know that?  You act like some kind of stupid hero, but I didn’t think you were stupid enough to _die_ like one.”

Chuck’s heartbeat is so loud in his ears he can barely hear his own panicky breathing; every instinct and every spell and every plan he made is gone, suddenly, and he’s paralyzed again.  Scared again, totally helpless for the first time since somebody pulled him out of the mud.  _God_ he’s so tired of being scared.  Why can’t the Duke just do it already if he’s going to?  Why hasn’t he just…

It’s a sudden spark, a certainty.  For just a second, shock almost blanks out Chuck’s fear. 

“…You’re not—gonna kill me,” he says.

The Duke pauses, staring down at him like he’s speaking in tongues.  There’s a look on his face Chuck can’t read, has never been able to read.  His heart is pounding so hard he’s choking on it, turning every inhale shaky and every exhale into a sob. 

“You’re not gonna kill me,” he says again, surer this time.  His voice is thin and cracked, croaking harshly out of him, but it makes the Duke flinch back a little, grip tightening.  The shard of glass goes still in the air between them, gleaming like diamond in the sunlight.  The light glitters and flashes on the Duke’s bloody face, his suddenly frozen expression. 

“…Now,” he says, soft and dangerous.  “Why would you say a damn fool thing like that?”

“Because—” Chuck reaches up, struggling for every inch.  His arm feels as heavy as lead.  When he reaches for the Duke’s wrist, the Duke recoils from the touch and hits his hand away, slamming it down with his cane.  Before Chuck can try to reach out again, the Duke shoves him back down with a wild snarl and digs the glass under his jaw.   Chuck gasps in a breath, tensing as the glass gouges into his skin. 

“…Because,” he says again, soft and hopeless and broken.  “…I trust you.”

The Duke’s face twists with something awful and ugly and brutally open.  “That’s—” he starts, strangled, almost frantic.  Scars are flickering and glinting fitfully on his skin, his rings are flashing on his fingers.  More glass is rising around them now, a vast, rising clamor of settling shards as formless magic whips fitfully around them.  “You— _stupid_ boy, we’re not—we were _never—_ shut your damn mouth before I—!”

And then there’s a great crescendo of shattering glass, a heavy _THUD,_ and the Duke is gone. 

Chuck lies there for what feels like centuries _,_ struggling to think, to _breathe_.  He can’t…hear the Duke.  The Duke’s not there anymore.  He’s not on Chuck, and Chuck needs to get up.  Get up, _get up._  

He’s halfway through forcing himself up on his elbows when more glass shifts behind him, and some part of his animal hindbrain sends a shiver up his spine.  His senses kick back in, in the wake of the sick, dizzy adrenaline rush; he can hear, all of a sudden, the things he wasn’t listening for before.  Heavy, _huge_ breaths, glass sliding, crunching and shattering and grinding.   A faint, slithering slide of scale on hard tile. 

A vast, cool shadow falls over him, cutting off the sunlight.  Chuck stares up, paralyzed in the sudden dimness; up and up and _up_.  At a wide expanse of glittering, opalescent scales, a curving neck, a pair of huge, curved ramming horns.  

The dragon steps forward over him, closing him in between its forelegs, puts its head down over him and _snarls._

“Hhhhh,” says Chuck, more a whispery breath than a word.  “Hha, ah.  M…Mike?”

The dragon’s eyes don’t waver from his face.  The growl doesn’t stop, either; a long, staggeringly deep rumble that seems to rattle Chuck’s ribs from the inside out.  He swallows hard, tries and fails to choke down a whimper.  “ _Mike._ ”

Glass shifts, and the dragon’s head twitches up, distracted.  Chuck turns too, swaying, half-crawling, and sees a crumpled figure on the ground by the foot of the throne.  The Duke’s skinny limbs all thrown in the wrong directions, fresh cuts bleeding down his arms and through his pants.  He groans, shifts, tries to get up again.  Falls back, holding his side and panting.

“Mike,” says Chuck, and reaches out for the nearest leg. The dragon’s scales are hot and hard, and it doesn’t seem to notice it’s being touched. It moves forward, eyes still fixed on the Duke’s body, claws and scales ringing faintly on the tiled floor.  “Mike, _wait—_ ”

Overhead, the dragon’s growl rises, more urgent now.  It creeps forward, head down, wings half-mantled and wingtips brushing the galleries on either side of the throne room as it comes.  The Duke tries to get up again, and the dragon reaches out one enormous leg and scoops him up in its claws, lifting him high in the air, fixing him with a terrible, golden-green eye.  It snarls, opens its mouth—

“Don’t!” 

The dragon stops, glances down, and for just a second Chuck quails again under the sharpness of that unblinking, reptilian stare.  The dragon regards him, tips its head a little on one side.  Just its breath feels almost as hot as the Duke’s hottest flames did, and there are drips of liquid flame between its teeth, dissipating as they hit the air.  Between its claws, the Duke starts to shift like he’s going for a spell—the dragon’s eyes snap back up to him and it snarls again.  

“Please,” Chuck says, hopeless and small.  “…I don’t want this, you—aren’t like this.  Julie, and, and Texas, and Dutch, they gave me those stones because we knew you wouldn’t—you’re not gonna let them turn you into some kind of monster!”

The dragon makes a screeching, grinding sound, loud enough to rattle in Chuck’s ribs—its lips curl back from its teeth, and it breathes out a rush of air that ripples with heat. 

“Don’t,” Chuck repeats, and holds out his open, bloody hands, pleading.  “Don’t kill him.  We need you back.  We just want you back, Mikey, please.”

The dragon’s wings spread and rustle uneasily.  For a long second, it just stands there, frozen, fire dripping and hazing around its fangs, eyes fixed on Chuck’s face.

And then the massive claws holding the Duke loosen and let go.  He falls in a flail of limbs—ten, twenty feet, manages a brief flare of magic that jolts him to a halt halfway down and then loses it again and hits the ground with a nasty _thud._ Chuck stumbles forward, already reaching out, and then—hesitates.

He’s still kneeling there, swaying, when scales and glass move again and a clawed foot wraps around most of Chuck’s body, pulling him back away from the Duke.  Chuck gives an instinctive, cracked shriek of terror and curls in on himself as much as he can, then screams again, weaker and more pathetic; he can feel fresh blood trickling across his skin as hundreds of cuts reopen on his back and chest and stomach.

As soon as he screams, the grip on him eases and he’s lowered to the ground. He crumples there, shaking all over and moaning as pain burns across his skin in waves, shooting from one laceration to the next in little spiderwebs of agony.  There’s still—god, there’s still glass in his skin, he can feel—

There’s a rush of hot air and the dragon is bending down, huge head on Chuck’s level.  It’s—no.  _He’s_ watching Chuck, head still a little on one side.  Curious.  Worried?

 “…Mike?” Chuck breathes, barely daring to raise his voice.

Mike blinks slowly at him, pupils wider now, bright and brilliant and finally _awake_ again.  There’s still a terrifying, feral edge to his eyes and god he’s _huge,_ but Mike’s back, somewhere behind his eyes. 

Chuck really _really_ wants to collapse over on the ground and cry.  Just curl up in a ball and cry like a baby.  But instead he smiles a little, dizzy and sick, and reaches out to touch one of Mike’s huge, ivory claws. 

Mike twitches at the touch, and then lowers his head a little more and nudges gingerly at Chuck with his nose. Chuck twists instinctively away from the touch, letting out a sharp whimper of pain.  Mike makes a garbled clicking sound of distress in return, then blinks, voice cutting off sharply like he surprised himself.

“…Help,” Chuck mumbles, and holds out a hand.  “Help me, sir, Mike, I can’t—” 

A massive, clawed foot reaches out and hooks delicately around him, lifting him, helping him onto his feet.  Chuck staggers once his legs get under him, head spinning and throbbing, lights flashing behind his eyes, and—and, _oh_ , shit—

Mike makes a second, considerably louder noise as Chuck crumples against his leg with a long, trembling groan of pain.  His head is spinning, his stomach heaves and then he’s retching; nasty dry-heaves that only make his stabbing headache worse.  He’s so tired, his body is rebelling against every second of consciousness.  It hurts to breathe.  It hurts to be awake.  It hurts to be _alive_. 

Mike’s trying to say something, maybe, a growling, clattering reptile noise.  Chuck forces himself upright again with a heroic effort, wraps his arms around one tree-trunk foreleg and holds on tight.

“ _…’S okay,_ ” he wheezes, and he can’t really tell if Mike hears him or not, but he seems to calm down a little.  His head bows back down to listen, the other front foot comes and nudges up against Chuck’s throbbing back, steadying him.  “I’m, I’m okay, ‘m fine.  You’re fine.  We’re—we’re fine…”

Mike head rises again, and that snarl rises in his chest.  Chuck looks up and sees the Duke.  Still moving, struggling to get upright, one hand groping for his cane. 

 _Never let them keep you on the ground, kid_.  _You got this.  This is nothin’._

Mike’s jaws _snap_ in the air overhead with a noise like a massive bear-trap.  His weight shifts, claws dragging at the tile.  Tearing, cracking it like dry clay. 

“Sir Chilton,” says Chuck, and sways hard as his vision doubles, knees wobbling treacherously under him.  “This man is.  A prisoner.  Not t’be…harmed— _hff._ ‘S an order.  Mike, _listen to me_.”

Mike snaps again, and there are hot flashes of that strange, half-liquid fire on his breath again.  He’s drawing in close around Chuck, both forelegs closing in around him, huddling down to cover him.  He doesn’t seem to have recovered his power of speech yet, but his meaning is pretty clear regardless. 

“Duke,” Chuck calls, voice cracking and thready.  “Drop— _ah_ , drop your weapons—surrender, and we’ll make sure—”

“I don’t _beg for mercy,_ ” spits the Duke, ragged.  When he tries to push himself up his right arm buckles under him, and he makes a noise that makes Chuck feel sick to his stomach.  Some part of him is so angry, _so_ angry and hurt and still terrified, he wants to let Mike go.  Wants to pick up a shard of glass himself, march over there and jam it against the Duke’s throat and make him apologize for every terrible thing he ever said and did—

Chuck sways over, rests his forehead against one of Mike’s legs, against warm, smooth scale.  Mike stiffens, wings flicking and tapping against the galleries around them, and then his leg shifts a little.  Pressing back, supporting Chuck’s weight. 

 “He’ll—pay for what he did,” Chuck says, for Mike’s benefit or his own, he doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know.  “But if…those other dragons, if they come for him, they’ll tear him apart.  We can’t let—we gotta.  I have to, Mike.”

Mike lets out a low, discontented noise, like he’s not sure that would be a bad thing.  But his wings are settling, folding slowly around him.  He slides the leg Chuck is holding onto slowly forward, helping Chuck stumble across the cracked floor. 

The Duke is still lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.  His nose is bleeding in a sluggish trickle down his cheek; his rings are still flickering faintly, but none of them can seem to hold their light.  He looks…old, and skinny, and tired.  Worn out.

“You did care,” Chuck says, and drops down on his knees.  He’s close enough to reach, but he’s not worried the Duke will grab him, somehow.  They’re both done.  They both gave this fight everything they had.  The Duke doesn’t meet his eyes, just glares resolutely up into nothing.  “You couldn’t’ve lied.  For that long, that much.  You cared.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” the Duke says, very quiet and rough but very clear.  He’s still not looking over.  His wrist is bent at a weird angle, already going black and blue. 

“Look at me,” Chuck gets out, and sways.  His headache is only getting worse, a nasty stabbing ache behind one eye.  “Look me.  In the _eyes._ Tell me you were just using me this whole time.”

The Duke’s lips press into a thin, angry line.  He doesn’t look over.  “If you’re gonna kill me,” he growls, “ _Kill_ me already.”

 “ _Look at me,_ ” Chuck presses.  “You couldn’t kill me, _why_?  I want you to say it to my face!”

“I _would have,_ ” the Duke snaps. 

“No, you wouldn’t!”

“You’re delusional,” the Duke mutters, and turns his face deliberately away again.  “…Didn’t listen to a word I taught you—”

“I listened to you!”  The unfairness of it is smothering, infuriating.  “I—ever since you broke me out, I’ve listened to everything you told me to do, no matter how much I—”

“No, you _didn’t_!” the Duke says, and for the first time he half-turns, shifting like he’s going to lash out again.  Mike growls overhead, and the Duke’s eyes flicker up to him and back to Chuck, narrow and furious.  “If you did, you would’ve thrown these mercenary _nobodies_ out of your kingdom the second they got here, and you wouldn’t have forced my hand—”

“ _No,_ ” Chuck snaps.  “No, don’t try to make this about what I did!  Because—because this _wasn’t my fault!_ ”

It feels weirdly freeing to say, out loud, to both of them.  And it’s clear, right now, for at least a couple of minutes.  Maybe it’s the pain and adrenaline, maybe it’s the exhaustion, but everything feels…really straightforward, at least for a few seconds.  The Duke’s lip twists, but he doesn’t answer.

“You didn’t have to do this!” Chuck says, and hears Mike rumble far overhead, soft and unreadable.  “You could have stayed.  I _wanted_ you to stay.  I—wouldn’t have listened to you all the time, but—that’s not how it works, I’m not _supposed_ to!  You didn’t have to—I wasn’t—”

For a second his voice cracks and wobbles awfully.  Chuck stops, scrubs at his face with one clumsy, tired hand and shakes his head, trying to fight his voice back under control. 

“I wanted you to stay,” he says again, and feels Mike’s warm leg press up against his side as he sways, supporting him.  “Mike wasn’t here to replace you.  The Burners weren’t going to _replace_ you.  Nobody could…ever…”

The words hurt too much to finish.  Chuck shakes his head, catches his breath as that makes cuts sting on the back of his neck.

“…I have to try you for this,” he says.  “High treason.  Attempted murder.  Enslavement of a Raymanthian citizen.  Bellicose arts in times of peace.  Just like we would try anybody else.” 

“ _Fuck you_ ,” the Duke says again, sullen and bitter.  “You think I can—you think I _care_ if you think—I would rather _die_ —”

“ _Sleep._ ”

The voice seems to come from nowhere, humming with keenly-focused magic.  Chuck flinches, trying to marshal a defense against the spell, but it’s not meant for him; the Duke’s eyes roll back in his head, and he falls back on the floor, limp as a corpse. 

A leg the size of a tree-trunk wraps around in front of Chuck, pulling him back and away as footsteps ring across the tiled floor.  The Duke’s woman-at-arms strides out of the shadows, glances up at the towering shape of the dragon blocking out the light and then keeps on walking like it’s something she’s seen a hundred times before.  The Duke doesn’t twitch as she drops down to one knee next to him and looks him over, shaking her head. 

 “…Y’didn’t finish him off,” she observes.  Her voice is a little harsh, heavily accented.  She glances up at them, and a jolt of shock shoots up Chuck’s spine.  The dark glasses that have always been covering her eyes are gone; her eyes are bright, bloody scarlet.  “Well.  Not for lacka tryin’, looks like.”

Chuck doesn’t answer—can’t put the words together.  Those sharp red eyes just sparked a memory somewhere in his brain, a vivid memory of being small and freezing and half-starved.  Carrying a sword he barely knew how to use, listening to Mad Dog laugh in the background as an enormous, red-eyed shadow swooped down out of the sky and landed so hard the ground shook, and—and Chuck had—

“…I thought I killed you,” he says, tiny and breathless.  “Why didn’t you say—  You’ve been here, I thought I _killed_ you.”

The dragon doesn’t answer, just rolls the Duke’s body over and checks his pulse.  Slaps his cheek, not too hard—he groans and shifts a little, then goes still again. 

“What happened?” Chuck says, desperate, and starts to walk forward—as soon as he tries to bear his own weight, his legs start to wobble so badly he almost falls.  “If—the Duke collared you, I can—I mean, I can free—”

The dragon glances up at him, and just for a second something a little warmer seems to soften her impassive stare.  She tilts her chin up minutely; no collar.  Not even a hidden one, no necklace, no scar, no tattoo.  “Thanks anyway, kid,” she says, and lifts the Duke up into her lap with no visible effort.  Slowly, methodically, she starts pulling rings off his fingers, out of his jacket.  Scatters them across the floor, gleaming in the sunshine.  Mike makes a discontented noise through his fangs, claws working again. 

“…You were that skinny kid they dragged in when I got tore up at Royal Oak, right?”  She tosses her head—for a second her tumble of red hair shifts, and Chuck can see a jagged scar over one eye.  He remembers, remembers healing that.  He’d been so tired, almost as tired as he is now, spell-forms painted roughly on his palms in greasy paint.  He nods, dry-mouthed.  “Mad Dog said if you didn’t have the magic to finish the heal, you had the meat to make up for it.”  Her mouth twists a little as she says the words, like the thought of eating a person is mildly distasteful.  “…Rat bastard.  Size you were, you wouldn’ta made a mouthful.”

Chuck’s keenly aware he’s being distracted, frozen in place as she steadily strips the Duke of his stolen dragon stones.  It doesn’t really matter—he can’t bring himself to move. 

“You don’t remember fighting me, huh?”

Mike’s growl spikes sharply overhead.  Chuck glances up at him, and whatever Mike sees in face makes him pause and then subside a little bit, glaring distrustfully down at the ruby dragon. 

“No,” says Chuck breathlessly.  “No, I…I don’t.”

“Y’didn’t, really,” says the ruby dragon.  “Kept tryna get past me.”  Another ring— _clink_ on the ground, faint but clear.  “Finally got you pinned, and you looked me right in the face and then pulled down lightning, right on Mad Dog’s lance.”  Another ring.  “…You like that spell, huh?”

“I…killed Mad Dog?”  He’d known about that part, sort of, but it had always been hard to comprehend.  He doesn’t remember anything after the moment he drew his sword and started forward.  The dragon nods slowly without looking up. 

“ _Then_ you passed out,” she says.  “My Duke couldn’t’ve wiped it out of your head if you hadn’t run yourself clear out of magic.” 

Mike snarls again, and this time Chuck definitely agrees with him.  “Wait,” he says, “Wait, are you saying he—”

“Cursed it right outta you,” says the dragon, and pulls the last ring off.  “He hadta have his dragon-killer.  Had his heart set on you.”

The Duke’s cane is lying on the ground near his still body; the dragon reaches over and picks it up as Chuck stares, trying to find the words to ask all the questions he wants to ask.  She examines the shining surface of the enormous fake ruby, and then sneers and breaks it effortlessly in half.

The noise is formless, louder than a thunderclap and briefer than a blink.  It hits like a physical blow and leaves Chuck swaying, dazed, hands pressed over his ears to make sure they’re not bleeding.  The woman is still talking, but he can’t hear her over the ringing in his ears.  Outside, distantly, he hears a roar that makes the glass around him tremble faintly.  The collaring spells must be broken.  It’s over, now.

“— _senses strong,_ ” finishes the dragon, and Chuck blinks and feels the cold sting of foreign magic fade away as his hearing floods back again.  “My bad.”

“Don’t— _enchant_ me without my permission!”  Chuck snaps, and it would be kingly if his voice didn’t crack.  There’s something about this lady that freaks him out—has always freaked him out, ever since she faded almost imperceptibly into the background of his life.  He doesn’t want to fight her, not again.  Not now that he knows she’s the dragon, not now that he’s heard her use effortless free-form magic. 

“...My bad,” says the dragon again, drawling and half-sincere.  “Thought you might like t’be able t’hear.  If you want, I can bust your ears up again.”

Mike snarls and flares up his wings.  The dragon raises her eyebrows at him, baring a set of very white, sharp teeth—but before she can growl back, the Duke’s head lolls to one side and a wisp of dissolving illusion catches Chuck’s eyes.  For a second he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing—when he does, his heart skips a beat. 

There’s a new oath-breaker scar burned into the Duke’s skin.  It stretches from his right eye down his cheek and his neck.  It’s black as pitch, long enough to vanish under the collar of his shirt.  The dragon clicks her tongue, rubbing at it with a thumb, and then shakes her head.

“Shouldn’t promised to keep him safe if you knew you were gonna back out,” she tells the Duke’s unconscious body, and hoists it up into her arms.  “…You’re goin’ all sortsa soft.”

“Hey!”  Chuck struggles—manages, with a monumental effort, to push himself up to his feet.  “Wh—  Where do you think you’re going?!”

“Those a-holes out there ain’t collared anymore.”  Mad Dog’s dragon nods at the rings scattered across the ground.  “They ain’t gonna be happy if they figure out I’m the one who took those rocks outta them.  So.  I’m not waitin’ around.”

Mike snorts an angry huff of fire.  The other dragon curls her lip at him.

“…Like you wouldn’t do it for him.”

“I wouldn’t ask him to!” Chuck says, affronted.  The woman glances at him, impassive, and shakes her head. 

“Keep your baby king,” she says, and without warning she’s changing, standing up, massive wings unfolding from her back.  When she finishes, her voice is harsher, with a flicker of flame around her lips.  “…I’m keepin’ my Duke.  He won’t make trouble for ya.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t care,” says the woman coldly, and then there’s a rush of wind and she’s flying, spiraling up toward the broken glass.  Chuck lifts an arm, feels a faint fizz of magic under his skin—

His arm drops.  Even the effort of _trying_ the spell sends a fresh wave of dizziness through him.  Mad Dog’s dragon twists through a broken pane of glass, pushes off and vanishes into the blue sky.

…And it’s over.  Mike snarls after her, but Chuck’s legs apparently take the quiet as a signal to give out underneath him.  Mike catches him hastily on two huge, clawed feet, supporting him like a ragdoll, and leans in to huff and nudge at him carefully with his nose.  Chuck stares up at him, and for the first time it registers, _really_ registers, that Mike’s a dragon.  That that’s Mike in front of him, barely fitting in the cavernous space of the throne room, huge horned head bowed low. 

“Hi,” he says, dumbly, and Mike blinks at him with reptilian confusion for a second and then huffs a noise almost like a human laugh and squints his eyes almost shut in an unmistakable smile.  “Can…dragons can still talk, right, when they’re—when you’re—big?”

Mike’s shoulders don’t work the same way they used to, but he manages a pretty convincing shrug.  Chuck grins helplessly up at him, taking in the glossy scales, green as a forest in summer. 

“…Are you…a jade dragon?” he guesses, and reaches out painfully to run a hand over the thinner, shimmering scales on Mike’s chest and neck.  They’re not green like his back and flanks are—there are glitters of other colors in there, gleaming and shifting like pale opal.  “Or—no you can't be just jade, I've seen this pattern before—  Wait, don't tell me, I— _hff,_ I've got a guide to dragon genotypes somewhere in my library, I bet I could figure out—”

There’s a hoarse rumble, an unformed sound, and then, "I'll…turrrrn back," Mike says, rough and slurred through a mouth shaped wrong.  "Broke y’r palace.  Sorry."

"Don't be a  _dumbass,_ Mike!" says Chuck, almost laughing with disbelieving amazement, and holds up a hand that feels like solid lead.  "—Come here!"

Mike folds himself carefully down until he’s lying down like a giant, scaly cat; Chuck beams at him, scorched and bleeding and exhausted and totally incapable of not smiling.

" _Wow,_ " he says.  "Mike—wow.  You look amazing, dude."

He reaches out and lays a hand cautiously on Mike's nose, stroking the emerald-green scales.  They’re smooth and warm under his palm, and Mike closes his eyes and cocks his head into the touch, nudging his nose against Chuck’s side.  He probably means it to be gentle—it almost knocks Chuck off his feet, and surprises another dumb giggle out of him.  Mike laughs too, deeper and louder than Chuck remembers, but almost the same.  When Chuck goes back to petting his nose, Mike closes his eyes again, and a hot, rich sound rumbles out of his chest, rising and falling like a distant avalanche.

"How many kings can say they've heard a dragon purr?" Chuck says, soft and delighted, and leans in to press his forehead to Mike's.  Feels a hot huff of air against his stomach as Mike’s purring rises again.  "You're—perfect, Mikey, wow, you're so, so good.   _Look_ at you."

"I'm really...not," Mike says, and his voice is so loud but it sounds so small.  It doesn’t matter.  Chuck just holds onto him, strokes his cheek and the smooth spikes of horn on his nose and forehead.  Mike nuzzles up against him and purrs again, softer and steadier, settling himself gently down—and down, and down…

—

Mike doesn't really realize he's changing, shifting, shrinking, until he's more than halfway transformed.  By then it's an unstoppable release, an exhale with his whole body, and all he can do is breathe and give in to it.  Melting into nothing, changing, reshaping into something other.

It's a staggering feeling, one he hasn't felt in years and years, and it drops him to his knees when it's over.  He shakes, gasps—the air is suddenly cold, the ground is hard against his bare skin.  He's himself again, Mike again, two arms and two legs and hair in his eyes. 

But he's different, too.  There's a warmth in his chest, flickering under his ribs; his eyes pick up colors and shades in the air that he didn't see before.  The knots in his back are gone.

And there's a hand on his face.

"Mike?" says Lord Vanquisher, small and shaky, uncertain.  "Are you...?"

Mike leans forward, smooth and simple, unhesitating, and kisses him.  Chuck catches his breath sharply, shocked, and then melts into it.  Mike stays there for a long second, one hand gentle on the back of Chuck's neck—not pulling, but firm enough there's no way to mistake it for an accident.

Chuck stares at him when he pulls away, licks his lips and smiles tentatively.  He’s swaying in place, _covered_ in scrapes and nasty cuts, his cheek is split, his nose and lips are covered in tacky, drying blood.  His shirt hangs off one shoulder in scorched tatters, and the skin underneath looks angry pink, darkening to painful, scorched red.  He's grinning at Mike like he doesn't even feel it, eyes practically sparkling.  

"Hi," says Mike.  His voice sounds the same, feels different.  Hoarse and low and private.  

"Hi," says Chuck, and his shy smile is growing, wide and bright and wondering.  "H-how do you...feel?"

" _Amazing,_ " says Mike, and stretches, spine arching, neck rolling.  When he settles back down again, he's just in time to catch Chuck's eyes flickering guiltily back up to his face.  His pale, dirty cheeks are flushing pink, and he can't meet Mike's eyes for long before his gaze slides away to somewhere above Mike's head and to the left.  Mike glances down at himself, baffled, and—oh.

Oh, he's naked.

Some part of him is aware he's embarrassed about that—or he should be.  It's weirdly hard to care.  Except...

"That was my favorite pair of jeans," he says, aggravated.  Chuck stares at him, lips slightly parted, and then snorts and bursts out laughing.  Mike frowns at him, aggrieved.  "Seriously!  They must have gotten just totally ripped apart when I transformed, and it's really hard to find a good pair of jeans out in _mm_..."

Chuck kisses slow, cautious and chaste and thorough.  His mouth tastes like blood, he keeps catching his breath in pain as he moves, but he threads a hand through Mike's hair and rests the other one on Mike's chest as he kisses him, and that's great, that's  _amazing._   Mike groans and leans into it, hungry for more, and Chuck—

—makes an incredibly funny little squeaking noise and jumps.  "Uh!" he says.  "We—uh.  We should—here!"

He pulls away, scarlet-faced now, tugs a cloak out of thin air with a spark of magic that makes him sway in place and groan.  Throws it over Mike--  Because...oh, right.  Because Mike's naked, and he was kind of pressing his whole naked...everything...up against—okay, yeah, that makes more sense.  Even though Chuck is  _his_ , his flight, his king, and hugging him naked is the least of the things Mike wants to do to him.

He wants to kiss him some more, for a start.

"Hey," Mike says, and leans in, feels the cloak on his shoulders, sees Chuck's eyes wide on his face.  When he rests a hand on Chuck's hip he shivers all over, and it's like they never left that alley on the fourth of July, hot and close and sweet.  "...wanna get outta here?”

“That sounds…”  Chuck laughs, breathless and trembling, and then tries to lean in for another kiss and almost misses Mike’s face.  He barely catches himself, grabs Mike’s shoulder and hangs on.  “… _Oof._ Nice.  Sounds…really nice.  But, I, uh.”

“You look about ready to pass out,” Mike agrees, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world, right now, to lean forward and press their foreheads together.  Nuzzle at Chuck’s bloody cheek and jaw and his hair—so shiny, it’s so nice, gold, soft and all messed up like Mike could put his hands in it right now.

…If he didn’t feel kind of like he was also about to pass out. Mike leans back, sighing regretfully, and just grins at his king instead. 

“You were cool,” he says.

Chuck snorts and shakes his head—winces, swaying again.  There’s a nasty mess on the back of his head when Mike’s hand weaves gently through his hair; a growing lump and tacky blood. 

“We gotta get you to a healer,” Mike says, and wraps the cloak around his waist in a makeshift kilt, hooking one arm around Chuck’s back.  Chuck whimpers softly when Mike’s arm touches his skin—there’s no good place to touch him, the entire thing feels like a mess of blood and torn fabric.  Mike grits his teeth and just holds on as lightly as he can, and Chuck doesn’t make any more of those noises.  Just shakes, twitching and shuddering as Mike helps him to his feet. 

“How’s…your chest?” Chuck says, a little distantly.  Geez, he’s so pale.  “The stones, that—you’re okay?”

“I think so.”  It’s a lot.  Even as tired as Mike is right now, there’s a fiery, boiling, superhuman _something_ in his chest now—pride and strength and instincts he used to be able to ignore.  The voice that wanted him to kill the Duke, that whispered _he stole from you, he hurt your flight, burn him off the face of the earth._ He almost lost himself in it, almost brought the whole city down just for the joy of breathing fire, of flight, of being what he was meant to be—

“…I’m okay,” he says, instead of saying any of that.  “How'd you know that would work?"

Chuck kind of giggles, a touch hysterical.  "I, I just—" he shrugs.  "Hoped?"

Mike gapes at him.  Chuck giggles again, rough and kind of choked.  

"I mean, I...  Educated guess?" he says, like that makes it better.  "There's a metamagical theory called  _emotional molding—_ if your magical identity and your sense of self is—" he must see the bleary incomprehension in Mike's eyes, because he stops and tries again.  

"...You loved us," he says instead.  "You gave us your...soul, and your magic, because you loved us.  And we—l-loved you, um, too.  We changed those stones, by having them, and using them, and...and loving you.  So when you got them back, you had something...tying you to us?  To humanity?  Does that make more sense?"

"Kinda."  Mike sways a little—Chuck yelps and sways with him, knees shaking.  "...No, not really."  

"Okay, fine," Chuck says.  "It was the magical power of love.  How's that?"

"Oh," says Mike.  "Oh, yeah.  That...yeah.  Heard of that."  And then, bleary and late and soft with wonder, "...You love me?"

"Geez, Mike," the king sighs, and smiles a helpless, crooked little smile.  "...How could I  _not,_ dude?"

“Mike!”

The other Burners are half-running toward them over the fallen rubble of the throne room.  They look pretty beat up, but nowhere near as bad as Chuck and Mike do.   Texas gets there first, vaulting over what used to be a chunk of the ceiling and sliding down to land in front of them.  “You look like crap!” he says.  “You okay?” 

“…’M fine,” Chuck says, which is a blatant lie.  He’s papery white, breathing hard. 

“Texas calls bullshit,” says Texas, and hurries around on Chuck’s other side, getting a shoulder in under his arm.  Chuck lets out a brief, shaking cry of agony when Texas touches his back, and Texas winces and mumbles something that sounds a lot like “—hey, sorry, my bad—”

“What happened?!”  Dutch is singed and breathless, weirdly desaturated.  His tattoos are motionless and drained almost gray.  “The Duke—?”

“Gone,” says Chuck briefly.  His head is bowed far enough Mike can’t see his face, but the tone of his voice is painful enough.  Small and hurt.  “He’s gone.”

“Oh, man.”  Dutch hesitates a second, then shakes his head and reaches out, pats Chuck’s shoulder.  “I’m…sorry, dude.”

“You’ll get through this,” Julie says, uncompromising as ever, and Chuck sniffs and nods, not looking up.  They’re all gathered around so close, bloody and bruised and beat-up, and Mike…

Mike is…

“…Tex, “says Mike distantly.  “Take him for a second?”

Julie doesn’t look scared of him as he walks up to her, just confused and kind of worried.  Mike gives her a reassuring smile, reaches out and runs a hand through the silky waterfall of her hair, like he’s wanted to for years.  Leans down, giving her plenty of time to pull away, and kisses her. 

For a second, Julie goes totally still.  Mike starts to pull back, startled, not sure if he’s messed up—but when he starts to step away Julie cups his face in both hands and kisses him back, hard.

"Took you long enough, Cowboy," she says when she finally lets him go, flushed and breathless with the taste of her waxy lipstick on his tongue.  She smiles at him, eyes dark and pleased and  _burning_.  And then…hesitates.  Glances over at Chuck.   Mike looks over too, and sees him standing very still, eyes wide, watching.  “Are you…sure?” Julie says.

“Trust me, Jules,” says Mike quietly, and turns to Dutch next, smiling up at him hopefully.  Dutch is staring from Mike to Julie—he looks kind of…sad, hurt.   He smiles at Mike anyway, though, like he means it.  Like he wants to mean it.

“It’s okay,” Mike tells him, full of exhausted certainty.  He reaches out, still holding Julie’s hand, to pull Dutch down to him.  Dutch makes a startled sound, lips dry and warm and slack, and then leans into it. 

When Mike leans back, the other Burners are all staring at him.  It all seemed to make sense a second ago, but—god, did he just mess up?  Did he just—?

“Whoa,” says Dutch.

“I just…” Mike swallows.  He wants to kiss Dutch again, he should let go of Julie’s hand but he can’t, he’s—scared.  Scared if he lets go she won’t let him touch her again, never again.  What if she leaves?  “I just thought…you all said, you all told me you liked me, and I…” the words choke in his throat, come out small and uncertain.  “…I love you guys.  I love… _all_ of you.  Why shouldn’t we all have each other, why would that be bad?!”

“It wouldn’t,” says Texas firmly.  The other Burners all turn and look at him, and now everybody looks confused, and amazed, and kind of scared.  Mike is barely listening.

“Seriously!  Screw Kane, and, and me being what I am, it’s—it’s how I am, and I love you guys _so much,_ so why can’t I just—?”

“You can!” says Texas.  He unhooks Chuck’s arm from his shoulders and helps him lean against a slab of stone.  “Don’t go nowhere.”

“I just want—”

Texas grabs Mike’s shoulder hard and Mike sucks in a breath, jolted back to the moment.  Texas is glaring at him more intensely than Mike has ever seen him, brows drawn low and eyes fixed on Mike’s.

“C’mere, Tiny,” he says, and then Mike is going over backwards because holy crap Texas just dipped him.  Mike kind of yelps into the kiss, flailing, but then Texas pulls back and grins at him and there’s a sturdy knee behind him and oh, okay.  Okay, _wow._  

Texas swings him back up with a grunt and Mike staggers, blinking and dazed and warm in the face, and looks hopefully up at the other Burners. 

“Well,” says Julie, and takes a deep breath.  “…if we’re all being brave today.”  And she marches over to Chuck and leans up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.  Mike stares, eyes wide, and Chuck looks from Julie to Mike, back to Julie, and makes a cracked little giggling noise.

“Y-yes,” he says.  “Uh—yes, my, my lady, you have my full blessing— _mm_.”

He has to bend down really far for Julie to kiss him, but they look really… _good_ together, really right, and Mike is smiling now, smiling so wide it hurts, so wide there’s a knot in his throat and his eyes are burning and that rolling, purring sound is rumbling in his chest again, he’s so _happy_.

“Wow,” says Dutch, and slides an arm carefully around Mike’s waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed.  Mike grins at him, puts his arm around Dutch and gives him a squeeze so enthusiastic it almost lifts Dutch off the ground.  “Whoa!  Uh, okay, dang.  Ha!”

“Hey,” says Chuck indistinctly, and pulls back a little from Julie, catching his breath.  “Mm.  Hhh.  Mike.”

“Yeah!” Mike gives Dutch another brief squeeze and steps forward again, ready for more kisses, for Chuck to smile at him and—

“Take me to a healer,” says Chuck.

“Oh,” says Mike, faltering.  “Yes…sir?”

“Thanks,” says Chuck mildly, and falls over. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"--Can and will be used against you in due process of your judgment if you are convicted of a crime by the laws of Raymanthia."_  
>  _"I know, I got it. I don't care if you're recording, I'm not leaving until he's awake. You can't make me leave, Ruby, I'm not under arrest."_  
>  _"You're a person of interest. A_ lot _of interest, Mike. And you're aware, for the record, that refusal to comply with the militia is an offense? And I can't leave you alone with him."_  
>  _"Well I guess you'll just have to sit here with him too, won't you?"_  
>  _"...Fine."_
> 
> \-- Transcript of palace guard recording spell, suspect #2, palace medical ward.


	13. Healing Wounds, Debts Repaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing so broken it can't be pieced back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _To fully cover the topic of magical injuries and their treatment, the general category of "magical wounds" will be divided into subsets: wounds created by raw magic (ie oathbreaker scars), wounds created by natural force or substance_ imbued _with magic, localized curses and other forms of "world wounds", and wounds inflicted on magical beings by substances to which they are magically vulnerable, ie silver or iron burns. I will then cover the topic of healing magic and the application of nonstandard means of healing, as many of the most common forms of healing magic prove to be mostly or even totally ineffective in the healing of magical wounds, scars and inflictions._
> 
> \-- Forward to "The Magic of Amelioration: A Hypothesis On The Atypical Healing Of Magical Wounds", submitted to the University of Michigan Vault of Tomes by his majesty the Lord Vanquisher of the kingdom of Raymanthia

There's a lot to do, that day. The ambassador from Brightwater is rescued from a set of heavily-warded rooms high in the central tower; she's very frazzled, and she doesn't exactly seem happy about the whole mess, but when she hears the words "attempted coup" and "three collared dragons" she at least looks suitably impressed. Julie makes the apologies for Chuck, under Ruby's watchful eye— _his majesty is indisposed, he'll speak to you as soon as he's available, we apologize for the inconvenience._

Because he is. Indisposed, that is.

Mike spends most of the day sitting next to Chuck's bed. Chuck doesn't move—just lays there on his side, while healers come and go and carefully work shards of glass out of his hundreds of cuts and scrapes. Mike keeps tensing up whenever they have to pull out a particularly nasty piece, but Chuck doesn't even twitch. His eyes are deeply shadowed, his lips are chapped and his cheeks are flushed and sweaty. Mike sits next to him, watching as his shoulders rise and fall, matching him breath for breath.

Ruby puts a guard on him the entire time. Mike...gets it, he really does. He's been a knight, fiercely protective of his king. He's heard the things the Duke said about him while he was collared. Ruby's got no way of knowing what happened, but she knows Mike is a dragon and her king is unconscious and that's all she really needs to know. She can't be there in person—too much mess to clean up, too many things to keep an eye on in the king's absence—but she can at least make sure he's not alone with the king until she knows Mike won't hurt him.

She comes back eventually, when the sun is starting to edge towards the horizon. Mike is half-sleeping, curled up in his uncomfortable chair at the side of the bed, holding onto the king's limp hand as gently as he can. Ruby makes her presence known by shoving through the door and clattering up behind him, and Mike almost slides out of the chair in his shock. Ruby waits for him to get upright, wild-eyed and bleary.

"I'm not leaving him," is the first thing Mike says, dogged.

Ruby sighs. "I know you don't want to," she says. "But this is..." she looks briefly pained. "...More important."

Mike huffs a hot breath out, glaring dubiously.

"I'm serious!" Ruby says, and folds her arms. "It's the dragons."

 _That_ gets Mike's attention. "The Duke's dragons?" he says, and then winces and glances down—Chuck didn't stir, but he still lowers his voice. "I thought they ran when he lost control!"

"Well, they're back now," says Ruby. "...And they say they'll only talk to you."

—

Rayon is in human form again when Mike reaches the courtyard. The light is starting to dim overhead, falling toward sunset—it's hard to believe it's still the same day as the battle. Mike's whole body feels…well, pretty good, actually. It's the rest of him that's tired. He feels heavy inside with all the things he got back—but lighter, too, and hotter, and brighter. It's hard to describe.

Rayon seems to see it though, because as soon as he sees Mike he narrows his eyes and gives him a really long, really sharp look. "...Well," he says. "Look who got his life back together."

"You look better," says Mike, and grins kind of self-consciously as Rayon gives him a tired, impatient look. There are bandages wrapped around his throat where the collar used to be, and he's missing his glasses. "I mean... You do, though."

"Mm," says Rayon.

"Right," says Mike. "So. Who are these guys?"

The garnet dragon curls his lip at Mike from across the room. His right eye is swollen and his face is at least as bruised as Texas's. Mike smiles back at him for a long second and eventually the guy looks away, scowling.

"That's Junior," says Rayon. "This is Foxy."

The topaz dragon nods stiffly. Some part of Mike wants him to growl, but— But he knows they didn't have a choice, he _knows_ that. It's not this lady's fault there are nasty cuts on Julie's arm and side. Mike hurt Chuck, too. It's not his fault, and it's not their fault.

"Hey," he says. "Mike Chilton. Uh...I heard you wanted to talk to me...?"

"Yeah," snaps Junior. His voice has the same high, growling edge under it as his roars did. "Where's my bros at, _dude?_ "

"Your...?"

"The Duke took our flights," says Rayon, with a sharp glance back at Junior. Junior sneers at him too, and goes back to sulking. "We'll be taking those. And our stones."

"Oh!" says Mike, "Uh, right. Well…"

"Well _what?_ " says the woman with the long ponytail sharply.

"Nothing!" Mike says, raising his hands defensively. "Nothing, just…you've gotta be careful taking those things back, you know that, right?"

"Don't lecture me," says Rayon sharply.

"No—dude, seriously," Mike insists. "I almost _ate_ somebody when I turned back. I almost hurt Ch—one of my—uh."

Rayon cocks an eyebrow at him, apparently amused by his stammering. But there's definitely a thoughtful edge to his expression now. "We could handle it," he says.

"No, you couldn't," says Mike firmly. "I only could because the Burners had mine, they did some kind of—magic thing, I dunno, you have to ask Lord Vanquisher about it."

"…Mm," says Foxy, and the look on her face tells Mike everything he needs to know about that idea. And that's—fair, probably, he guesses, but it still rubs Mike the wrong way. Chuck is _his,_ these guys don't know how great he is.

"He's a smart guy," he says, trying to keep his voice level. "He knows a lot about magic theory, he's the only reason I—"

"Only reason you knew you was a dragon?" Junior cuts in, and cackles. "He knows more about you than you do!"

"Hey!" Mike snaps, startled and affronted—it's easier, now, to bristle and bare his fangs, it rises up in him in a hot rush. "What's your damage, dude?"

"Stop," says Rayon, heavy and quelling.

"Don't tell me what to do!" Mike growls, and then abruptly chokes on air as Rayon takes two fast, long strides forward and looms into his space, eyes flaring neon blue.

"I said _stop,_ " he says, and there's a rolling snarl under the words that makes Mike feel abruptly a lot smaller, startled and uncertain. All of a sudden he's intensely, unsettlingly aware of how much older Rayon is, how cold his eyes are. The urge to back down, lower his eyes and hunch down small is overwhelming. Mike does his best to ignore it, but he can feel his gaze slide away from Rayon's. For a long second, everybody is quiet. The other dragons have gone still, not backing down but not snarling back either.

Mike has to swallow hard before he can get words together. His throat is suddenly dry, words are hard. "…The Duke took your flights, not the king," he manages, kind of quieter and more subdued than he means to. "Whatever he did should've been over as soon as we beat him."

"That guard girl told us they've found the place where he locked us up, and it's empty," says the topaz dragon—Foxy. Her voice is smoky and soft, but her eyes are as hard and sharp as flint. "There must be other places he hid things. And people."

"There's not a—secret _dungeon_ or anything," Mike says. "Lord Vanquisher doesn't do stuff like that."

Junior snorts and mumbles something. Rayon glances over at him, answers. It's a rough, crackling language, familiar but only distantly. Faint, blurry memories. Mike huffs, and it's almost startling to feel the rush of heat as a wisp of fire flickers between his lips. "I'm _right here,_ " he says. "Do you freakin' mind, dude?"

"What," Junior says, English now but no less abrasive, and bares a mouthful of crooked, needle-sharp teeth at Mike. "You's a dragon, aintcha? So how's come you don't talk the talk?"

"Junior," says Rayon.

"Deluxe would ruin anybody," Foxy says, and she says it _kind of_ like she means it to be helpful but all it does is make Mike's head feel tight and his chest feel hot. He can feel himself shifting, the impulses he used to have control over resurfacing with terrifying new strength. Two strange, sharp aches on his forehead where his horns are starting, a tension in his jaw as his teeth get longer and sharper.

" _Foxy,_ " says Rayon sharply, but Mike isn't listening. His gut is burning.

"I'm not _ruined,_ " he says, voice rough, feeling his breath too hot and dry with every word.

Foxy raises her eyebrows at him. "Find our flights," she says, instead of answering. "We'll be on our way."

"You're all nested up with the king now, right?" Junior snickers. "Why don'tcha ask him?" He adds something in draconic—whatever it is, Foxy and Rayon both shift their weight, eyes narrowing.

"You're the only one here who _doesn't,_ " says Rayon sharply, pointedly still in English. "So I'd consider keeping a civil tongue in your head."

Junior rolls his eyes, but apparently he doesn't want to argue with Rayon any more than Mike does. Rayon gives him one last look, breathes out a hissing stream of blue-white smoke through his teeth and then turns back to Mike.

"...He could know something," he says. "I don't have to tell you how...important it is, for us to get our flights back."

Mike imagines, briefly, how it would feel to sit there, collared and helpless, knowing he'd failed to keep the other Burners safe. Wondering what the hell the Duke could have done to them. There are hard shadows under Junior's eyes, hairline creases at the corners of Rayon's mouth and between his brows, hundreds of tiny nicks and scratches along Foxy's arms that don't look like injuries from a fight. Mike would...definitely not be doing great. And he wouldn't be in the mood to be polite or wait for answers.

"Fine," he says, and catches the faintest hint of relief in the way Rayon shifts his weight, the slow blink of his eyes. "He wasn't awake when I was up there, but I'll…I'll ask."

—

As it turns out, Chuck _is_ awake. When Mike gets back up to the room he's laid up in, he's propped up against Texas's shoulder in bed, under Ruby's watchful eye. The rest of the Burners are gathered around, hovering; nobody seems to have noticed Mike coming in..

"—To the Duke's collar, for— _hhf._ for my sake," he's saying as Mike walks in. His voice is a tiny, raspy croak, but there's still a ring of command to it. "He is to be. Commended." He stops, eyes closing for a second, breathing like he just ran a mile. There are bandages around his entire chest and torso, wrapped around his arms, and Mike only stands frozen for a second before he's half-running across the room and dropping down on the bed next to him, ignoring everybody else in the room and touching his king's battered face, his burned shoulder, his sweaty, rumpled hair.

"Sire?!" says Ruby sharply, one hand on her sword—Chuck sways and clings to Mike's shoulder, and then holds up a shaking hand to Ruby.

"I'm, I am, this is—" he pats Mike's shoulders haphazardly for a second, then finally manages, "...All is...well." Glances at Mike, and a hint of a flush rises in his pale cheeks. "I'm okay," he says, much quieter, private.

"You do not _appear_ 'well'," Julie points out. Chuck tries to shrug and then seizes up all over, blanching, face twisted in sudden pain. Mike makes a noise he's never heard himself make before—a concerned, growling chittering noise. It feels right; it feels like the noise you make, when one of your mates is in pain and not taking care of himself. Chuck glances up at him, startled, then huffs and relaxes, taking slow, shaking breaths.

"...Nevertheless," he says, and one bandaged hand comes and finds Mike's knee, patting gingerly. There's a heavy dressing on his palm. "I am. Well, I mean. Sir Ruby, _please._ He—uh." He's blushing, and it's adorable. "He...takes no liberties I do not...willingly grant."

"Oh," says Ruby. " _Oh._ " And then, "—Yes, sire. That—very well!"

Mike's barely listening. "What happened to your hand?" He demands, and takes Chuck's wrist, lifting it up, sniffing. It smells like...burning, and blood, and...dragon magic. Mike draws back, nose wrinkling. "What—?"

"Energy output," Chuck says, and twists his wrist weakly, tugging at Mike's grip. There's no way he could pull away if Mike didn't let go, he's as weak as a baby and Mike has all his strength back. Mike lets go anyway. "When I...returned the last stone to you, the kickback—the spell—" he seems to see the incomprehension on Mike's face; he sighs. "...Your last stone burned me," he says plainly. "Not your fault. Just...harder to heal. Magic wounds—I wrote a— _hhh_ , a paper..." The words are split by a cavernous yawn. "I said. All is well, now."

"Badass," says Texas, apparently immensely satisfied. There's a thud somewhere behind Mike, like somebody just punched Texas on the shoulder, but Mike's not paying attention. This is his fault. The magic in the wound, his, the stone his, the wound is _his._ He takes Chuck's arm again, and this time he doesn't let go, lifting Chuck's hand to his face and pressing his lips to the rough bandages.

Chuck takes a sudden sharp, shuddering gasp of air, tensing all over. The feeling of dragon magic in the air rises and then abruptly goes dead. The burnt smell fades. Mike breathes out and then sways as a sudden ache of fatigue settles into his muscles, like he just got up and ran halfway across the city. Chuck stays shivering-tense for another second, then abruptly wavers and falls back, panting.

"What," he says, and then abruptly starts scrabbling at the bandages. "I think you just—holy crap—help me look, I need—"

Texas provides a pocket knife almost immediately, and Ruby carefully chops off the bandages. Underneath them, Chuck's palm is pink and sore-looking, but not burned. There's not even a scar.

Chuck says a word very unbefitting of a king, then winces and glances over at Ruby. When he sees her expression—grinning like she just got handed her own castle—he relaxes again, although he still looks kind of cautious and confused. A second later he goes back to staring at his hand, turning it over, wiggling the fingers.

"Whoa," says Dutch, and grabs his arm, turning his hand back and forth. "Mike, did you do that?!"

"Uh." Mike blinks at Chuck's bare palm, startled. Wow, he's _tired_ all of a sudden. "I dunno? I don't—I don't have magic, I mean..."

"You _didn't_ have magic," Julie corrects him. "...Especially not magic that Deluxe tutors could teach you how to use. Dragons don't use spellforms—"

"No, back up," Chuck says. "That was, like, a _third-degree burn!_ A _dragonfire_ burn! I mean, it was small, but—"

"I thought you said it was no big deal!" says Mike. "You said it wasn't that bad!"

"I was obviously lying!" Chuck snaps, and works his hand, flexing the fingers and rolling the wrist. "Holy shit, dude! That was totally a healing spell! What did you do? Did you think words, or was there some kind of emotional—"

"Hey," says Texas sharply. "Hey! Everybody chill!"

Chuck pauses and seems to realize, for the first time, that Mike is staring at him, wide-eyed. "I don't have magic," says Mike numbly. "I—I don't do magic."

"Looks like you totally do now!" Texas says encouragingly, and slaps Mike on the back. "Nice!"

"You must have cast a healing spell," says Chuck, and pushes himself up, taking a deep breath. This time he barely winces. "I— _wow,_ I feel _way_ better." He combs his hair back with his fingers, rolls his shoulders cautiously. "Ha—okay. Alright, wow, thank you sir, Mike, I—I need to go and—"

"What you need to do is get more rest," says Julie. "Have something to eat, relax for a while."

"I agree, sire," says Ruby, a little more careful but very firm. "You have fought a _mighty_ fight today, one healing spell can only bandage the wound—"

"Nnh," says Chuck, and pushes himself upright with a wince and a groan. "Ah— _hhah,_ I've gotta—there's so much to, to do, I gotta be there for—"

He starts to move like he's going to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Everybody in the room closes in around the bed all at the same time, blocking his escape route and manhandling his legs back under the covers. Chuck huffs and grumbles and swats weakly at them, but he only manages to put up a fight for a few seconds before he slumps again, panting. He may not be in agony every time he moves anymore, but there's still an unhealthy, feverish cast to his face, and his pulse pounds in his throat when he lies back. "...I have to—see my people," he says weakly, and drops his head onto the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. "I...I can't just—"

"Drink some water," says Julie, even more firmly. "Eat some food. _Rest._ "

"They need to know I am well," Chuck says blearily, but he doesn't open his eyes or raise his head. Dutch glances around at the others, then edges around the other side of the bed and perches carefully on the edge of the mattress. Chuck tenses up for a second when a cool, long-fingered hand comes to rest on his forehead, then he relaxes all over all at once. The noise he makes reaches somewhere inside Mike and hums like a caught harmony—a soft little surrendering groan, aching and exhausted. "They...they need to..."

"We'll tell 'em," Texas promises, uncharacteristically serious, and Chuck sighs again as Dutch's fingers card through his sweaty bangs, stroking his hair out of his face. Ruby is still staring—not glaring, not shocked anymore, just...kind of wondering. She catches Mike looking back at her and clears her throat, cheeks flushing—turns and marches hastily back to the door, giving them space.

"You're good," Texas is saying, when Mike turns back—one of his arms is wrapped around Chuck's shoulders, holding him firmly in place so he can't try getting out of bed again. "It's all good, skinny, now chill the heck out already."

Texas hasn't sounded that soothing since the time Mike got stabbed in the side and they had to drag the head of the pike out of him. Julie and Dutch had healed as they went, and Texas had held onto Mike's hands and talked to him the whole time, making up stories, saying nonsense, distracting him from how the burning itch of the wound healing from the inside out. Mike loves him. He loves all of them, he loves them _so much._ Jeez.

"—You're stressing Mike out," Texas finishes, and Mike's warm, soft feelings are abruptly interrupted by embarrassment.

"I'm not stressed!"

"Uh-huh," says Julie, and pats Mike's thigh. Mike shivers, briefly distracted, then frowns as the other Burners grin at him.

"Seriously! I'm not stressed!"

Chuck's mouth curls briefly at one corner, a weak smile. He's so precious and so tired and still so hurt, and Mike really just wants to curl up on top of him and share the new heat in his chest.

Feeling the fire inside his ribs reminds Mike abruptly of why he's back up here in the first place. Reluctantly, he pulls himself back away from Chuck's side and refocuses.

"I do—I gotta ask you something, though," he says, and Chuck has a lot of practice keeping his face blank but Mike can feel his shoulders tense. "No, it's not—it's not something bad, just...the dragons the Duke collared are, uh. Downstairs. But it's not bad!" he hurries on, as the other Burners immediately reach for their weapons.

"The other dragons are back?" Dutch repeats incredulously. "Yeah, Mike, that's bad! That's real bad!"

"They don't wanna fight!" Mike says. "Seriously, they're not here for that. They're here for their...flights."

"Their flights?" Chuck repeats blankly.

"Yeah, y'know." Mike shifts his weight a little, eyes sliding away from the others' gazes. "Their, uh..."

"I know what a flight is," Chuck says, before Mike can try to find words for something he barely understands himself. "No, I just... Most collared dragons don't...don't have any flights. Left. Most hunters find the one in charge, sort through the flight for anybody... _'useful'_ , and...get rid of the rest." He winces at the words, and Mike winces too, heat rising in his chest again at the thought of somebody doing that to his Burners. "Are you saying they're...still around somewhere?"

"They definitely think so," says Mike. Do you know, uh...anywhere else he might have...?"

He doesn't say what "he" he's talking about, but he knows Chuck knows by the way his expression goes tight and miserable.

"I...I don't..." He swallows hard—again. Keeps going resolutely, ignoring the tremble of his voice. "Not that I kn-know of."

"Okay," says Mike, and sits back, grimacing. "Okay. I'll...tell them."

"No," says Chuck, and edges toward the side of the bed again with dogged persistence. The Burners start to move to push him back again, but he raises his head and gives them all such a sharp look Mike feels himself straighten to attention. " _No_ ," he says again. "I'll. I will speak to them. I will speak to them in person, it is my _duty_ as—" he sways in place, then straightens his back painfully and holds his head high, jaw jutting stubbornly. "My duty. As king."

"But..." Mike starts, agonized, and then sees the look in Chuck's eyes and stops. "…Okay. Yes, of course."

"Help me up," Chuck says— _orders_ —and the Burners glance at Mike and then at Chuck and then grab Chuck's arms, helping him stagger to his feet. "I can't go down there looking like this. I just need—my face, my hands…"

"Of course," says Julie, and reaches up to touch his face, running her fingertips over the cuts and bruises. There are one or two lacerations that are too big to heal on short notice—Julie touches them too, and illusion washes over them.

"Sire," says Ruby. "Your crown, we haven't recovered it from—"

"There is nothing to recover," says the king, and takes a clean shirt as Dutch offers it. Tries to lift his arms to pull it on, and almost buckles over. Mike winces at the tiny, choked noise he makes and hurries to help, trying not to disturb the bandages on his shoulder or back. "I—I had to destroy it. A new crown will have to be made. What of the…the Duke's rings?"

"Under Sir Ericsson's custody," says Ruby promptly. "He took a single look and immediately locked them away, sire."

"Good," Chuck mumbles, and fumbles with his button. His trained, calm expression keeps flickering, hints of frustration and embarrassment showing through as his fingers refuse to obey him. "No, I can— _no,_ Mike, I can get it. Sir Ruby, please bring me the rings. And—one of you, from the table, over there. The Duke—" A brief flinch, but he pushes through it with ragged determination. "The Duke tied most of his magic to objects. Whatever he did, if he locked their flights up or enchanted them or, or something, it should still be in…those."

"Object history," Julie says, and takes the pieces of the Duke's staff from Dutch's hands as Ruby salutes her orders and heads for the door. Julie turns the pieces of the staff over in her hands, and her lip twists a little with distaste. "...Ugh."

"What?" says Mike, and then he reaches out and touches it and he feels it too. There's a nasty feeling around the metal, clinging to his skin like static electricity as he pulls his hand away; a thick, lingering miasma of strong, sickly-feeling magic. It's...bad, it feels bad. Feels like the collar felt around his throat. Mike growls, rubbing his hand off on his jeans.

"Here," says Chuck, and reaches out, beckoning. "I can...I can still—"

"No need," Julie says smoothly, and walks away from Chuck to the middle of the room, finding the clearest possible patch of carpet. Chuck starts to hobble after her, but Julie settles down on the ground a second later, and Chuck is too stiff and unsteady to lean down after her. He cranes his neck to see instead, looking half peeved, half fascinated.

Julie seems unfazed by the audience. She reaches up and touches a small, intricate symbol between her collarbones, pulling a roll of paper out of thin air. She flattens it out on the ground, business-like, and lays the pieces of the staff in the middle. "Let's see what he used this thing for," she says, and holds her hands out over the piece of paper, like she's warming her hands over a fire.

The investigation spell is one of Julie's favorites, and Mike's seen it quite a few times, but now that he's got Julie's stone back it's a whole new experience. The symbols of the spell shift like moving shadows, sliding across the paper and up onto the pieces of the staff, where they sink into the metal and vanish. Mike leans in, watching close, and sees tiny beads of light racing along under the surface of the metal, like bubbles trapped under ice; a second later, a faint, shadowy shape drifts from the cane, followed by another, and then a couple more, and then a steady stream.

Julie regards the foggy mess of old spells, sorting through with interest. "This is the hex he got you with, Mike," she says, and pulls out a sharper, clearer outline. Mike can't really read the symbols, but he can feel it, when he looks closely. The magic of it shifts and snarls like tangled vines, worrying at itself, looking for a mind to snag. Julie flicks her fingers, and the cloud is whisked away, destroyed. He used to feel magic, sometimes, every so often, but it was never like this before.

"This is the electric thing," Mike says helpfully, and jabs a finger at a thick, dark shadow. Being near it makes the hair on his arms stand up and his skin buzz. Julie glances up, raising her eyebrows behind her bangs, and then peers more closely at the spell and makes an interested little noise, eyes narrowing. "—What?"

"Nothing, just...you're right, it is." Julie discards that spell too, and turns back to the cloud, frowning. "Most of these are attack spells." She beckons, and a chunk of the circling cloud gathers to her and then dissipates without trace. Mike's neck prickles at the feeling of them, sharp and searing and made to hurt. "And the rest—"

"Oh," says Chuck, really quietly.

Julie glances up at him, startled. "Oh?"

"I think I know," says Chuck, and takes an uncertain step forward. "Help me—"

Mike steps forward quickly, biting his lip, and helps Chuck as he sinks down onto his knees. With the new strength burning through him, it's almost bizarrely easy to support Chuck's full weight.

"This," Chuck says, and reaches out, plucking two spells out of the air. One is so old, it's barely an echo; a faint wisp of shade on his newly-healed palm. The other one is indistinct, old, but still much newer and larger. Mike squints at them, then wrinkles up his nose and looks away, resisting the urge to scrub at his face and shake his head until the strange taste-smell-sound-sight of them is gone. They feel _empty_. Heavy like thick static, like the ringing sound silence makes.

Chuck holds one in each palm, and looks them over. He looks really...small, all of a sudden. Tired and young and worn out. He looks deeply, awfully unhappy and Mike doesn't know why, doesn't know how to fix it.

"...This is how he did it," says Chuck, too quiet. "It's a curse." He holds up the stronger spell. "He used this one to wipe their memories." He holds up the other one, watching it flicker and shift in his hand. "...And this one on me."

"What?" says Dutch, alarmed. "When—?"

"When he had that fight with the dragon," Mike says, and feels Chuck take a fast little unsteady breath. "...I'll tell you later. The Duke wiped his memory—you think he did that to—to their flights? All of them?"

"But his spells are all messed up now," Texas says, and Mike glances up and just barely manages to put up an arm in time to stop Texas from doing one of his bracing back-slaps. Texas looks affronted and confused for a second, then he sees the bandages on Chuck's back and frowns, apparently chagrined. He squats down, brow furrowed with concentration, and puts an arm around Chuck's shoulders, almost comically careful. "...So you remember, right?"

"It might take a while for the memories to come back," Julie says, and reaches out to pat Chuck's arm, a little uncertainly. Chuck doesn't react, just stares down at the spells in his hands, face unreadable, lips thin. "If you give it some time—"

"You don't have to do that," says Chuck, quiet and flat. "It's fine."

"Whaddya mean it's _fine?_ " Texas says. He doesn't always follow when they're talking about magic, but he seems to be getting enough of the conversation this time. He's scowling fiercely. "That doesn't sound _fine_ —"

"No," says Chuck, and there's an edge of ice in his voice this time. "It's _fine_."

Julie looks for a second or two like she'd really, really like to argue about that, but eventually she just sighs and looks away, back to the curses Chuck is holding.

"...You're sure this is how he did it?"

"Yes," says Chuck—just a little too blank, too formal. "Very sure."

"It does look like it was for a bunch of people," Dutch points out. "Man, he wiped your memory? That's messed up!"

"Mm," says Chuck tightly, and closes his hand on the spell, shaking off whatever he was thinking about. "We gotta jump on this," he says, and struggles up off his knees before Mike realizes what he's doing. He hurries forward, and Chuck twitches and then relaxes and lets himself be helped to his feet. "We need to get down there."

"You can't go down in your shirtsleeves," Julie says, and pulls a familiar green cloak out of thin air. The one Mike wore after he transformed. Mike takes it from her, ignoring the small, fussy noise Chuck makes at being helped.

He's in the middle of swinging the cloak around his king's shoulders when he breathes in and stops abruptly where he's standing, frozen. Takes a deep breath, and then another one, open-mouthed, tasting the air. In the sudden, close air between himself and the cloak, the scents he's only been vaguely aware of are suddenly thrown into sharp relief. Mike can almost taste the last faint traces of sour fear on the air when Chuck moves—cold sweat and the old, metallic stink of blood. Somebody has combed the worst of the mess out of Chuck's hair and wiped down his arms and face, but he still smells like blood and sweat and exhausted desperation. Mike can smell hints of sweet, spicy-scented soap, and underneath that a trace of the familiar smell of his skin. Warm and welcome and _home_ and _his—_

"...Mike." Chuck sounds self-conscious; his hand is on Mike's arm, pushing weakly. "Mike, come on, we've gotta go."

Mike becomes aware, abruptly, that he's leaning into his king's side, head almost on Chuck's shoulder to catch the smell of him. Somehow, he can't bring himself to be embarrassed, even when Dutch grins at him and Texas wiggles his eyebrows. Mike grins back at them, giddy all over again. It seems like a really, really good idea to lean up against Chuck some more and—and do _something,_ he's not sure, rub their faces together and comb his hair for him and kiss him, like, a _bunch._ Kiss Julie, kiss Dutch and Texas.

"I don't have a crown," Chuck frets to himself, and rakes his fingers through his damp, rumpled hair, wincing. "He put my sword...somewhere, I dunno, and the armor—"

"You look _great,"_ says Mike, and means it. Lord Vanquisher glances up at him, smiles an adorable, shy smile and looks away again, briefly distracted from his worry. Mike wants to make him make that face _all the time,_ it's so good. "You look amazing. They're not gonna know what hit 'em."

"I mean," Texas starts, "You do look kinda roughed up, but—" and then he catches Dutch's meaningful look and finishes, surprisingly smoothly, "—but, y'know, in a sexy way or whatever."

"Yeah, gotta look sexy for all these angry dragons," Chuck says dryly, and it's a bitter kind of joke but it's still a joke. Mike smiles at him, encouraged, and Chuck smiles wanly back.

—

Ruby catches them halfway down the tower, carrying a bundle at arm's length with distaste twisting her lip. When Chuck takes the bundle and flicks it open to glance inside, Mike understands why—the sudden wave of conflicting magic that washes over him is enough to make his stomach twist and his skin crawl. Chuck takes a slow, controlled breath, wraps the Duke's dragon stones back up and holds on tight, striding forward with new determination.

By the time they get down to the throne room, he's not striding anymore. He's noticeably limping, out of breath and pale with pain again. Apparently whatever healing spell Mike accidentally did, it wasn't enough. He waves off Mike's attempts to help, though, straightens his spine and his cloak, brushes back his hair.

The dragons look up sharply when the Burners come in. Foxy and Rayon have their heads together like they're in conversation, and Junior is poking around the throne with apparent interest. Mike feels his hand twitch for his sword, resists the urge to reach for the hilt. But he can't stop himself from stepping forward a little, taking up space, standing between his king and those unblinking, slit-pupiled stares.

"Welcome to Raymanthia," says Lord Vanquisher, and inclines his head. "I apologize for your treatment in my kingdom." He raises his head again, lips briefly thinning—in pain, he's in _pain._ Mike jitters a little in place, unhappy and not sure what to do about it. Foxy and Junior seem focused on Chuck, but Rayon's eyes dart to Mike and away again, and the icy look on his face softens minutely.

"That's a nice way of sayin' it," he says. "Mike seems to think you're the kinda guy who'd give back what got taken from us. Is that right?"

Chuck doesn't answer for a second. Then he slowly extends his hands, and lets the cloth bundle in his palms fall open.

Mike can't stop himself from flinching as the stones sing in all his senses, sudden and bright and unmuffled, calling out to the dragons that made them. Foxy's hand jerks up to her chest, Junior twitches forward like something punched him in the gut. Rayon doesn't move, but his breath goes rushing sharply out of him in a muffled, ragged huff.

"I know what they are," Chuck says, and his voice is steady but there's a hint of strain to the words. The light seems to bounce off the stones and cling weirdly to his skin, climbing up his arms into places there should be shadows. In their light, even without using them, he looks...different. His teeth seem to flash in the sunset light, sharper and longer. His pupils look too thin, the wrong shape. Chuck blinks hard, shakes his head a little and keeps going, slightly halting like he's having to focus for every word. "It is...your right, to take back what has been stolen from you," he says. Junior snaps his fangs impatiently and edges forward, eyes hungry on the stones in Chuck's hands. Chuck twitches with the effort of not cringing away, and then twists his wrist and throws the cloth over the stones again. The sharp, inhuman edges fade from his face, and when he speaks again his voice is steadier. "...But I have a single condition. You must leave my city before you restore yourselves."

"Bull," says Junior, and makes an aborted attempt to grab for the stones in Lord Vanquisher's hand. Rayon's hand lashes out, faster than Mike's eyes can follow, and grabs his wrist.

"You're the one who put Mike back together again," he says, considering, and narrows his eyes at Chuck. Without a master and a collar to grant him his stolen powers back again, he can't use his spell of Appraisal, but he's also sharper than just about anybody Mike's ever met. His burning blue eyes flicker from Chuck's face to Mike's, then to the other Burners, then back to the king. "How."

Chuck's expression does something very weird, like he can't decide whether to be excited, startled, or just exhausted. "Uh," he starts, and then winces, pulls himself painfully together and goes back to court formal. "The stones we were granted were imbued with the magical and…emotional bonds we held with Sir Chilton, and on their return—"

Junior sniggers and says something draconic in a stage-whisper. Foxy rolls her eyes, and Rayon glances back, brow furrowing. Junior catches the looks being thrown his way and subsides, muttering something sullen. Mike starts to take a step forward, protective—

"Oh," says Chuck. "Eh— _"_ and then a series of clumsy, roughly-accented words that are still unmistakably draconic. Mike stops, staring, and Junior goes still, eyes narrowing. Rayon's eyebrows rise—he's hard to read, but he looks distinctly amused. He gives Chuck a thoughtful look and says something quietly, smooth and smoky; Chuck grimaces and rocks a hand ambivalently in the air. Mike doesn't speak draconic, but he doesn't need to to recognize " _only a little bit, sorry"._

"Well, we better stay civil, then," says Rayon, with just a hint of a smile in his voice. "I didn't come here to talk stones. Not yet. What's this about our people?"

"The Duke cast a curse of amnesia on your flights," says Chuck, ragged but doggedly formal. "It has been broken, but its effects linger."

"Amnesia," Foxy repeats, dark eyes narrowing. "He made them forget us and then…what?"

"We don't know," Julie says. "But he wouldn't have let them go far. They were his collateral, if you escaped."

Foxy nods briefly. "So?"

"I think I can..." Chuck visibly catches himself, winces and starts again. "I believe I am would be able to...trace back the spell he used. Send out a call to the people he used it on, and hopefully—"

"You...'believe'," Rayon repeats. "'Hopefully'. I'm not hearin' much certainty in here."

"The spell is not a necessity," Chuck says, and there's just the barest edge of snappishness under his tone. Raising his voice makes him wince, one hand twitching like he wants to hold his side—he doesn't. "It is a courtesy on my part, an attempt to make reparations for our kingdom's treatment of you, but if you wish to _wait_ for their memories to return—"

"Sire," Mike says, as gently as he can. The king glances over at him, catches his eyes and pauses, taking a deep breath through his nose. When he speaks again, his voice is much more even, quieter.

"...If you would rather wait," he says, "There is lodging enough in the castle for you."

The dragons share a look.

"No," says Rayon, and inclines his head a fraction of an inch. "...We would be obliged."

It's the bare minimum of formality, but it's also more than the dragons have bothered with since they got here. Mike isn't surprised, somehow. If he knew his flight was just in reach, he would have been asking politely a lot sooner than this, honestly.

"I will need to gather mages," Chuck says, and starts forward. As one, the Burners take a nervous step forward, twitching to catch him as he sways. Rayon raises an eyebrow and Junior sniggers. Chuck shows no sign he heard except a faint flush of pink across the grayish, unhealthy tone of his cheeks.

Foxy doesn't laugh though, or raise an eyebrow. She sighs and steps forward instead, stalking past Rayon. She's barefoot, Mike notices suddenly, and the half-swept floor still has shards of glass on it. She doesn't seem to notice or care.

"I don't _do_ debt," she says, and in Mike honestly can't tell if that tone of voice means seduction or murder. Either way, not cool. Mike takes another step forward, sticking to his king's shoulder, and Texas steps up on Chuck's other side, arms crossed so his biceps flex menacingly. Foxy stops, making a show of raising her hands.

"You have broken ribs," she says. "And a crack in your skull."

"He— _what_?!" says Mike, aghast. "You do?!"

"As I _said,_ " Julie says, just a little bit sharply, "You treat yourself with less care than your subjects, sire, you may—"

"I am _well enough,_ " Lord Vanquisher says, chilly and defensive. Mike can almost hear him growl, see him bristle and flare his wings defensively. _I'm big, I'm tough, you don't want to fight me, I'm fine I'm_ fine—

"Well enough you _don't_ want me to heal you?" Foxy says.

Chuck blinks, defensiveness abruptly stymied. Mike wavers, torn between concern for his—his _Chuck_ , and protectiveness at the thought of Foxy doing magic on him. Before he has time to decide which one is stronger, Chuck is stepping forward, head held high, arms loose at his sides.

"...A generous offer," he says, and Mike can tell he's not completely sure, there's the faintest trace of a waver to his voice, but he can also tell there's no way Mike's going to convince him to reconsider. He spent a long time before Mike met him pretending to be cold and regal and not afraid of anything, and he's not going to stop now. "I accept."

Foxy doesn't bother to respond, just steps forward within a few feet of him and holds out a hand, clawed fingertips a few inches from the king's chest. When she starts to murmur to herself, it takes Mike a second to realize that he doesn't understand the words she's saying, and another tight, almost resentful little pang shoots through him.

It only takes a few seconds. Mike watches like a hawk the entire time, but even with the new sharpness of his eyes he doesn't sense anything out of the ordinary. The cuts that Julie glamoured over heal shut, and something about Chuck's breathing seems to ease. A subtle sense of wrongness that Mike didn't notice he was noticing slides back into place; a feeling of something sick and hurt easing and then disappearing. Like Mike can taste/feel/smell/see the injury, somehow.

"There," says Foxy, and steps back. Mike blinks, distracted from his thoughts. Chuck takes a breath, then another one, deeper, then lets it out slowly and deigns to smile just a little.

"I am...very grateful for your assistance," he says, and reaches up to finger-comb his hair back out of his eyes before very carefully taking a knee. He rummages in the pocket of his slacks, makes a soft, frustrated noise and presses a hand to his chest; a spark of magic ripples the air, and he sways but catches the piece of chalk as it appears. The trembling in his hands is just enough to see, but he ignores it and keeps going, making a surprisingly neat circle and starting to fill it with increasingly complex, interwoven symbols.

"I can prepare the form for the spell," he says as he works, distracted. He has to move slow and methodical, and he still winces every so often, but he's definitely breathing easier now that Foxy has healed him. Mike is still kind of sulking about that, not that he'd admit it. He should have noticed that Chuck was hurting, and how bad. "Another mage will be needed to activate it."

"Sir Ericsson should be capable, sire," says Dutch, and glances back over his shoulder at the Raymanthian guards hovering at the entrance to the throne room. They startle to see him looking at them, and then stand hastily at attention as he heads in their direction purposefully.

"You can quit with the fancy-talkin'," Junior says, with open disdain. "Ain't like we don't _know_ y'all been _nestin' up_."

Mike growls. Junior growls back, baring crooked, inhumanly sharp teeth in a wide, threatening grin.

"Oh, good," says Chuck, and his shoulders abruptly slump, regal bearing leaving him. "I'm so freakin' tired."

"Uh, Vanquisher?" says Texas.

"Yeah," says Chuck. "What?"

"Oh, okay," says Texas. "Cool! They weren't matchin' you anyhow, Texas was starting to get embarrassed for them." he chortles. Junior's glare transfers immediately from Mike to Texas, and darkens noticeably. Texas apparently doesn't notice. "Hey, I coulda run and got you some chalk, your Vanquisher, you didn't hafta use more magic."

"Mm," says Chuck noncommittally, and sweeps some shards of broken glass out of his way carefully. "I need a little bit of magic from all of you. Just a verbal affirmation should do it."

The rest of the spell doesn't make a lot of sense to Mike. Each of the dragons says something, and a different symbol lights up for each of them. Chuck briefly stops writing in chalk to do some math on a piece of paper from Dutch's satchel. Eventually, Thurman shows up with a couple of other mages, looking both awed and slightly uncomfortable in the presence of the three dragons. Chuck tenses back up as soon as they arrive, and slips back into strict, cool court formal, and some part of Mike's heart does a kind of proud, pained, worried throb.

After the spell is cast, the wait lasts all of about five minutes. Chuck warned them it might be longer, but Mike just barely has time to settle down in a seat against the wall—head nodding, bones aching—when all of a sudden the sound of running footsteps echoes across the throne room.

A man in a white shirt with a pair of dark sunglasses hanging off the collar comes bolting through the gates. Against all odds, Mike recognizes the guy; he sold Chuck a book on the fourth of July, the very first night Mike arrived in town. He stares around the throne room, panting; when his eyes fall on Rayon, they go absolutely round with shock.

"Sir," he says, small and breathless, and then louder, "Mr. Rayon!"

Rayon's head whips around, irises flaring bright, vivid blue; something brief and complicated flashes across his face, relief or joy or anger, before he forces his expression blank again and starts across the room in fast, deliberate strides, picking his way through the broken glass. The man obviously doesn't have the same reservations; he comes sprinting across the room, barely slows down in time to avoid a collision, and comes to a sudden, nervous halt in front of Rayon.

"Sir," he says again. "I'm so sorry—I forgot, I didn't mean—"

Rayon inclines his head and says something too soft to hear. The man takes a breath, lets it out long and slow and nods.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Where are the others?"

The others filter in one at a time; some of them urgent and breathless, some of them wandering and dazed. Chuck has a whispered conversation with Thurman as the flights start to gather—Thurman dithers for a second, obviously reluctant, then nods and backs away, taking the Raymanthian guards with him, leaving only the dragons and Mike's flight in the emptiness of the throne room. A crowd of ragged-looking young men with subtly pointed ears and hints of scale on their skin gather around Junior, and they immediately start talking to each other in draconic, loud and unapologetic in the empty, echoing space of the throne room. Rayon's flight is much, much smaller, and only two of the tall, dignified men looks noticeably inhuman. Foxy has collected a tight, equally dignified group of woman, whispering around her.

...All except for one.

"Julie?"

Julie has been leaning on the back of the throne, hidden from the gathering flights by its shadow; she jumps, staring around. There's a stir in Foxy's flight, and then a woman with her hair piled high on the back of her head detaches herself from the group and comes racing across the throne room.

"Jules!"

"What?" says Julie, and then " _Oof_!" as the woman from Foxy's flight slams into her, hugging her so enthusiastically Julie's feet almost leave the ground. "Oh my god. _Claire?!_ "

"Julie!" The woman says again, and squeezes her hard, burying her face in Julie's hair. Mike edges closer, doing his best not to reach for his sword. This lady doesn't seem to be threatening Julie at all, she seems to be happy to see her, so it's probably okay. He still doesn't like a member of somebody else's flight getting so close to one of his Burners right now.

"Oh my god, it's so good to see you!" the lady is saying, and she takes Julie's face in her hands and kisses her forehead, combs her fingers carefully through the dark, gleaming waterfall of Julie's hair. "Oh my god. When I heard you ditched Deluxe I got, like, _so_ worried!"

" _You_ were worried?" Julie repeats. "Do you—I mean— _Claire,_ where did you go? You left me _one letter_ , you said you would write every week—"

"I did!"

Foxy clears her throat. Mike jumps, and this time his hand really does go for his sword—he didn't even see her move to cross the room, she's just suddenly _there_. "Letters go missing a lot in Deluxe," Foxy says, in that low, smoky voice. "Wouldn't be surprised if all of them didn't make it."

"Oo yeah, I bet," Claire wrinkles up her nose. "I did write, though! Ohmigod I missed you, like, _so_ much. What have you been up to?"

"Oh, y'know." Julie shrugs, and Mike...definitely recognizes the would-be casual way she tosses her hair over her shoulder. He almost has to laugh—it isn't often he gets to see Julie trying to impress somebody. "Fighting battles, kicking ass, merc stuff."

"She's pretty cool," Mike puts in, and sees Foxy's eyes focus on his face, pupils thinning. For some reason he feels like he's being judged on something. Read. "We'd be sunk without Julie."

"Yeah, I bet," says Claire, and looks Mike up and down, eyebrows raised. "...And uh...who are you?"

"Oh!" says Julie, and glances back at Mike, smiling. Mike's heart kind of clenches up, hot and bright in his chest. "Right, yeah, uh...guys, this is Claire! Claire, these are the Burners."

"Mm," says Foxy, and takes a deep inhale, eyes flickering from face to face as Texas and Dutch fall in around Julie. Chuck glances over from his throne, forces himself gamely to his feet and hurries over as well, taking impressively confident strides. Claire looks marginally more impressed to see him, but not by much.

"Your majesty," she says briefly, and bobs a brief bow before turning back to Julie. "...So, are you, like..." she darts her eyes at Chuck, who glances from Julie to Claire and then straightens, cheeks going very faintly pink. Mike blinks, confused, then realizes a second late; Claire knows Julie's a princess. It would make sense for her to go for the king, if she was going to get together with somebody.

He's just opening his mouth to say something when Julie cuts him off. "Yes," she says, a little defiant, a little shy. "Not just him. All of them."

"Oh." Claire looks the other Burners over again, and her mouth twists a little. "...Mm."

"You wouldn't have to, though!" Julie rushes on. "I know they're, uh..."

" _Boys,_ " Claire finishes for her, with a little sniff that says just about all Mike needs to know about _that._ "Uh-huh. Jules, you're dating a bunch of boys? Who helps you out with your hair? Like, who do you even _talk_ to?"

"I beg your pardon," Chuck interjects, and then clears his throat, voice cracking just a little bit, as Claire and Foxy turn in unison to give him unimpressed stares. "W-we—are more than capable of taking care of a—woman of, of even her estimable caliber."

Julie smiles at him. Claire looks entirely unconvinced. Chuck's expression is almost as blank as it's ever been when he was pushing through fear, except there's a definite pink flush spreading inexorably across his face and down his neck. Well…this lady is really pretty. Mike can kinda see where he's coming from, except for the fact that Claire seems to not be into guys much, like, at all. And besides, the look Foxy is giving Mike all of a sudden could peel the paint off a wall.

"Wait," says Texas, "Wait, are you bangin', or what? Whoa- _ho, Julie,_ nice!" He holds out a hand—Julie hesitates, then darts out a hand and gives him the fastest possible high-five, a pleased flush riding high on her cheekbones. "How come you never came around, though?" He gives Claire a narrow-eyed look. "You can't just _ditch_ a lady like Julie. She's classy."

"Uh—yeah! no! Because your, what, your...evil dad, or whatever, locked up my dragon and cursed me!" Claire says, and throws Chuck a _really_ dirty look. Chuck flinches, eyes widening with shock and hurt for a split second before he blanks his expression again, lips thin and back straight. "I've been just hanging around in this stupid little town doing people's nails and hair and whatever for, like, _years_? When I could've been in here looking for Foxy! Or, _or,_ out there looking for you!"

"Hey!" Mike says, and steps between his king and Julie's friend, baring his teeth. Claire backs up a step, eyes flickering over Mike's sharp teeth, slit pupils and scaled cheeks. "That stuff isn't his fault! Back off!"

"Watch your mouth, Chilton," Foxy says, and there's a hint of a growl under her voice.

"No!" Chuck says, high and urgent. "Mike, stand down."

"Wait," says Claire. "Is he a dragon? Are you a dragon? Jules, you have a dragon too?"

"I'm not a," Mike starts, purely on ingrained instinct, and then shakes it off. "I—yeah! So?"

"Okay, but...these guys?" Claire wrinkles her nose. "Come on, like, you know there's other—"

She's trying to take—she's trying to _steal_ Julie, she's trying to take her away from her flight, and Mike's head is going down, his wings are flaring out over him before he has time to think. Foxy is startled for the barest second, but then she's baring her fangs and spreading her wings to match him, vast and feathered in black and threatening orange. She's older than him, but the Duke's not here with her stones to give her real shape back, she's small and weak and vulnerable right now. She came onto his territory and disrespected his king and tried to take his flight and Mike can _take_ her—

"Sir Chilton, by your oath stand _down!_ " Chuck snaps, and that tone and those words snag at Mike like an invisible collar, forsworn or not. He stops, breathing hard, glances back at his king without quite turning his head. He means to say something, but all that comes out is an angry, uncertain noise, rolling strangely in his chest. Foxy's wings flick, her eyes dart from Mike to Chuck and back again. Slowly, her wings lower.

" _Sire,_ " Mike manages, strangled by the snarl that wants to rise up in his throat.

"I gave you an order," says Lord Vanquisher, and Mike catches his breath, swallows his protests and the growl and forces himself to stand painfully to attention instead.

"It's okay, Mike," says Julie quietly, and lays a hand on his arm. Mike's breath catches at her touch, and—she's smiling at him, but is that good? A good smile, or an _I'm-sorry-Mike-I'm-leaving-you-for-my-old-girlfriend_ smile? God, if she leaves... "Claire, I gotta talk to you for a minute."

"Sure!" says Claire, and lets herself be pulled away across the room, head lowered to listen as Julie cranes up to talk softly in her ear.

Mike and Foxy watch her go, and Foxy _looks_ cool and disinterested again but there's definitely a narrow, suspicious edge to her gaze. Mike jitters in place for a second, then grinds his teeth and takes a deep breath in. Pulling his wings away again feels like breathing in and holding it, somehow; making himself smaller and keeping it there. Not enough of an effort to be difficult, but not quite relaxed, not quite normal. It takes him a second, but eventually he feels them fold back into him, fading under his skin again.

"...Can flights date each other?" Texas says, frowning after Julie and Claire.

Mike and Foxy both turn and stare at him. Texas stares back, then jerks his head pointedly after Julie.

"They're gonna _bang,_ " he says, like this should be obvious. "Like, in the next five minutes or whatever, probably. That's cool for dragons, right?"

"It's...not how we do things," Foxy says. Glances after Claire again and huffs a faint plume of smoke from perfectly-painted lips. "...Usually."

"If they want to, I mean..." Mike's brain comes up sharply on the thought of Julie kissing somebody who's not one of their Burners, on the thought of Julie— He shakes that thought off with an effort. "I'm...cool with it."

Foxy gives him a look that very clearly says _bullshit you are._ Mike meets her eyes, lips stubbornly thin, shoulders squared. He _is,_ he's cool with it. If that's what Julie wants, instead of spending tonight with her new flight, that's what she wants and he's _not_ going to get in her way. No matter how loudly his instincts are screaming at the back of his mind. He looks firmly away, refusing to keep watching, and his eyes fall on the other dragons, across the room.

At some point while Mike was staring at Julie and Claire and fighting with his instincts, Chuck apparently got too tired to stay standing again. He's leaning heavily against a wall across the room, talking to Rayon about something while Junior listens and scowls. Their respective flights are gathered nearby, a few careful feet of distance between them, avoiding each other like the plague. Mike sidles over toward them, resolutely not looking back at Julie.

"—Really well-documented cases of this, though," Chuck is saying, as Mike comes within ear-shot. "...Sudden increases in magic levels cause psychosis, aggression, delusions of grandeur—"

"We've all heard the stories," Rayon says, but he's frowning, tense.

"I—yeah," says Chuck, and tucks his hair behind his ears nervously. "So, all I'm saying is—is you have to temper that, somehow. It's a miracle Mike didn't—" he glances up, and freezes in place, locking eyes with Mike.

"...Eat the Duke, then you, then half of the city?" Rayon says, and glances at Mike too, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, 'miracle' is a good word for it."

"I thought I was gonna," says Mike, because it doesn't feel _great_ to think about, but...Chuck is staring at him like he thinks Mike's going to hurt him for talking about it. That's not okay. "For a minute, I was gonna." The memory is blurry, a brilliant blur of adrenaline and rage and power. The Duke hurt him, humiliated him, _stole_ from him, and Mike was going to tear him limb from limb for it.

And then Chuck was there, reaching up to him, small and weak and human-helpless, and he'd said the names of Mike's flight and something small and warm and familiar in Mike's chest had just...clicked back into place.

"Mike?"

Mike shakes himself awake, and realizes abruptly that he was staring at Chuck, smiling wide and warm and hopelessly affectionate. Junior makes a scathing little noise—Rayon looks from Mike to Chuck and back again, then shakes his head and huffs, a familiar _you dumb little hatchling_ noise Mike's heard so many times.

"So what's your theory?" he says, and Chuck blinks and looks away from Mike. "You think you know how to keep that from happening?"

"Yeah," says Chuck. 'Yes! Yeah. Uh...try to find somebody in your flight with...with a lot of love a lot of positive feelings, it works best if they have magic. They should use the stone a lot, if they can."

One of the slim, neatly-suited men from Rayon's flight glances at his boss, lips quirking in a soft, thoughtful kind of smile. Rayon glances back, the barest twitch of his head, and whatever passes between them in the split second of eye-contact, the man from his flight looks quickly away, grinning to himself.

"...And that makes it less dangerous," says Rayon, like the moment of connection never happened. "You _think._ "

Chuck sighs. "It's a theory," he says. "But it worked for Mike. Give it a couple of weeks, at least, reintroduce the stones one at a time..."

"If you's so sure, why do you want us to get clear of you first?" Junior points out. "If this fucks us over, I'm comin' for you, _man_."

Chuck flinches, just barely. Mike snarls, and then stops, blinking, as Chuck holds out a hand in front of him.

"It worked for me," he says, plain and informal, rough with exhaustion but very firm. "And if it doesn't work for you, that won't be my fault. And…if you come back here, and try to hurt my people—" He pauses, licks his lips. "…I didn't want to kill Mad Dog's dragon, because she didn't want to fight me. But I'll slay as many dragons as I have to, if that's what it takes. To keep my kingdom safe. "

Mike's heart does a kind of stuttering double-beat. Something like fear, or maybe awe, or hurt, or...he doesn't know what. He steps closer to Chuck's shoulder—feels his eyes burn as his pupils thin, letting his lips pull back to show his fangs. He doesn't want to fight another dragon, he doesn't want Chuck to have to, but—

"That's not going to be necessary," says Rayon, tight with annoyance. He turns back to his flight—they immediately look up from their conversations, going quiet. "Two?"

"Sir," says one of his men.

"How'd you like to go flyin' sometime?"

The man blinks, then sweeps a quick, precise bow. Rayon nods, looks back to Chuck and steps to one side. Chuck startles, then holds the bundle out again, wincing a little as he opens his hands and the light and power thrums through the air again. Mike feels it like a sudden electric thickening of the air, and he sways and sees the other dragons do the same.

"The black stone," says Rayon tightly, without looking. "Three, the blue one." He winces as a man with ruddy-brown hair steps forward, reaching out for the stones in Chuck's hand. "—No, the other—yes."

"Thank you, sir," says the man he called Three, and turns the stone of Appraisal over in his fingers, holding it like something fragile and precious. Mike knows, he's felt it before, which is why he notices the faint shudder that runs through Rayon's body at the touch. "I won't let you down."

Rayon doesn't answer that, just nods at Chuck, at Mike, and turns his back. His flight falls in behind him, in two rows.

Junior scoffs. "I don't nest _humans_ ," he says, and snatches his stones out of Chuck's hand. For a second he wavers, belligerent expression going blank and almost longing, and then he shakes the moment off and sneers at Mike and Chuck. Shoves the stones roughly into his pocket. He says something in draconic, and the rest of his flight hoots and snickers and then follows him toward the door, streaming around Rayon and his flight, already transforming. They're the smallest dragons Mike has ever seen, barely twice the size of Mutt, but there are more of them than Mike's ever seen in one place before. Their scales are wild, vivid fuschia, with tiny points of glowing lights scattered across their skin. Junior spreads massive, glitter-glowing wings and makes a familiar shrieking, grinding roar, and the flight takes off, soaring straight up into the twilight sky.

"...I'll tell the border guards to keep an eye out for him," Chuck says, and rubs a hand over his face. "If his flight's all dragons, they should be able to keep him under control—I guess, I mean, I dunno." He stares down at the bundle in his hands, the last two stones. "...So..."

"I'll take that!" says a familiar voice, and a slim arm darts past Mike and plucks the second to last stone out; bright red, gleaming and flawless. Claire turns it over in her hands, then grins at Foxy and blows a fiery kiss in her direction. Foxy's eyebrows rise, then she smiles back, eyes hooded and almost predatory and wow, okay, that's...that's a look.

Mike is still trying to figure out how he feels about fire and kisses and...looks... when Julie squeezes in between Claire and Mike, throws an arm around Mike's waist and drops her head against his shoulder.

"Hey!" says Mike, startled and pleased, and bumps his jaw against her head, nuzzling affectionately at her hair. "Everything, uh...?"

"Everything's fine," says Julie, as another woman from Foxy's flight stalks over and picks up the last stone. Julie glances over at Claire—Claire looks back, and the wicked look she was giving Foxy softens into something a lot warmer and fonder. Mike swallows hard, and can't quite stop himself from putting an arm around Julie's shoulders, squeezing a little. Julie shoots him a look, wryly amused. "...Seriously, Cowboy. Everything is _fine._ I'm not going anywhere."

Mike didn't realize he was so tense until he finally relaxed. He breathes out, grins against her hair and squeezes her hard enough to lift her almost off her feet.

"Sounds like you've got some stuff to figure out," Claire says, and leans down to kiss Julie on the forehead, then on the lips. "So, I'm gonna go turn my girlfriend back into the, like, totally sexy giant dragon I fell for. You go...teach all your boys how to be okay at dating, or whatever. I'll call you." She gives Mike a skeptical look, then pats Julie on the butt and strides off to rejoin Foxy's flight, hips swaying. Julie sighs, grinning, and shakes her head.

"Love you, Claire!"

Claire waves a hand with all the elegance of a queen. "Love you, girl!"

"Jules," Mike says, soft and low, "—You sure...?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Julie says firmly. "I'll call her later, Mike. There's a lot to talk about right now, and we're both...really tired."

"Yeah, no kidding." Dutch is picking his way over, kicking shards of glass out of the way as he comes. He edges in and wraps an arm carefully around Chuck's waist. Chuck jumps a little, blinking blearily, and then looks up at him and smiles weakly. "We gotta go get some sleep. Especially you, _Lord Vanquisher_."

"Mm." Chuck leans a little into his arm, eyes closing for a second, then groans and shakes his head. "Nuh. I can't. Yet. I gotta hold court."

"You what?!" Mike half-laughs, then sees the look of miserable, exhausted determination on Chuck's face and stops laughing abruptly. "Chuck..."

"I _have to hold court_ ," Chuck says again, ragged. "I _have to._ There was an ambassador, and then somebody poisoned the drinks, and then there were _dragons,_ and now this?" He gestures at the piles of broken glass in the corners of the room. "People need to know I'm still— They need to know."

"He's right," says Julie quietly, before Mike can object. The other burners turn to her—she puts a hand gently on Chuck's bandaged shoulder, and he glances up and gives her a shaky smile. "The people are scared, and confused. They need to know their king is safe."

"Okay," Mike says, pained. "But—"

"And _then_ you're going to go lie down," Julie says firmly, and squeezes Chuck's shoulder. "And eat something, and _rest._ "

"You can't give me orders," Chuck says, without much force. Julie doesn't bother to answer, and Chuck huffs and gives a second later. "...Fine. Okay, okay, fine."

"You heard him, Cowboy," says Julie, and when she looks up at Mike he can see the worry in her eyes, but her smile is steady. "Let's go to court."

—

Court is a messy, informal affair. People stream in from the city outside and out of the lodging in the central tower, crowding into the throne room under the dark sky, craning over each other's heads to see Lord Vanquisher on his throne.

Mike...doesn't like it. Chuck is so tired Mike can almost _taste_ his exhaustion, and one of the royal doctors snuck him some pain medicine but he's still wincing when he moves. But worse than either of those things is just...the way he _is,_ in front of court. When his subjects watch him, he falls back into that perfectly poised persona, _Lord Vanquisher_ instead of the guy Mike fell for. He sits up straight even though Mike can see cold sweat on his cheeks and the back of his neck, even though his cheeks are grey and his lips are pale with pain. He uses perfect court formal even though he's so tired he's fighting not to slur his words. Mike can see it taking more than he has left to give, can feel the awareness that his— _mate, flight, love—_ is messed up like this grating on his new, stronger instincts like a raw nerve. It's incredibly frustrating.

Usually, court is a long process of presentations and official rulings; tonight, it's more like a Q&A. People raise their hands or step forward from the crowd to ask their questions, in clumsy, in varying degrees of clumsy court formal. And the very first question is—

"Is it true Sir Chilton is a dragon?"

Mike resists the swell of sharp, tight panic that tries to fight its way up his throat at that; stays facing straight ahead, at court rest with his spine ramrod straight. He knew the Duke spread the word, after he collared Mike, and he knew that word would spread. It's the kind of rumor people like to pass around. And he's not...ashamed, of what he is. Not exactly, not anymore. But he's spent a long, long time trying to act like he's something he's not, and it's a tough habit to break all in one day.

Chuck's eyes flicker to him for the skin of a second, then away again. "...He is," he says. "As I knew many weeks ago. It does not alter my trust in him, and should in no way influence his treatment in our kingdom."

That last part is said really pointedly, and the guy bows hastily and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like an apology, melting back into the crowd. Mike can feel eyes on him—on his slit pupils, his pointed ears, the fresh glimmer of scales across his cheeks. He can't bring himself to care, not with the warm, bright surge of pride rising in his chest. _It does not alter my trust in him_...

A hand rises. Chuck nods, and a man steps forward and bows.

"If—Sir Chilton...is no traitor, sire, then..." he hesitates, then squares his shoulders and goes resolutely on. "...Then what of the Duke?"

Mike winces, expecting an outburst, but the king doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He sits perfectly still for a long, long minute, motionless except for the minute shift of his chest as he breathes and the working of his throat as he swallows.

"...The Duke...betrayed us," says Lord Vanquisher, and it's only because Mike's listening for it he hears the faint hitch in his voice. A murmur passes through the crowd. "All of us. It is no trifling thing, but. Raymanthia has...lost better men and women before. Loss will not break this kingdom."

A stronger murmur, warm with agreement. Chuck blinks, like he honestly didn't expect a reaction, then takes a deep breath, lets it out, goes on. "He made an attempt on the life of my knights, the ownership of my crown, and the safety of my kingdom," he says, and Mike sees Ruby's eyes flick to her king and away again. "As you can see..." a brief, deliberate sweep of his hand, taking in the scorched floor, the broken windows overhead. "...It took its toll."

Another figure, stepping uncertainly forward—Lord Vanquisher nods, and the man steps forward with an unpracticed bow.

"The dragons? Sire?"

A rumble of unease. Chuck nods slowly. "Collared by the Duke against their will," he says, blunt and plain. "They bear us no ill will and are now on their way."

There's such a strong sigh of relief, Mike would swear he can feel the breeze. The corner of Chuck's mouth quirks, just a little—pleased to deliver good news. The man bows again and steps back, and Chuck hesitates and then gestures toward one of his subjects as she raises a nervous hand.

"Yes?"

"I was just—" The woman clears her throat, tripping over the cadence of court formal in a way Mike finds all-too-familiar. He grins at her, and whether she sees him or not, when she starts again her voice seems steadier. "Are you well, sire?"

Chuck's hands clench on the arms of his chair, knuckles going white with the strain. Mike can almost see the Duke's shadow still at his shoulder, whispering something poisonous in his ear— _don't say anything dumb, kid, they'll think you're weak._

"Shielding us from the dragons was, um...trial enough," the woman is saying, more halting now as Chuck just stares at her, blank-faced. "And the fight this morning, sire, we...we fear for your health. If there's anything we can do..."

Julie beats Mike to the punch—his new, inhumanly sharp eyes can see the shimmer of illusion as she steps over, leaving a perfect copy of herself behind, and lays an invisible hand on the king's shoulder. Chuck jumps a little, eyes darting up and over; Julie meets his eyes and smiles warmly as she steps back into her double's place, and the illusion seamlessly vanishes again.

Chuck stares at her for another split second, and then looks forward again, back to the woman at the audience. When he answers, his voice is impressively steady, only the barest hint of some heavy, choking emotion under the words.

"...I _will_ be well," he says. For a second those white-knuckled hands clench so hard they shake, and then all at once he lets go. The shaking tension eases. "Rest and food will see me through. As will healing spells, and...time." The words seem to take a lot out of him—he takes a deep breath once they're said, and then adds, a little late, "...Thank you for your concern."

"Of course, sire!" says the woman, and Chuck blinks, apparently taken aback by her vehemence. The woman stammers a little, flushing, and then bolsters. "You are our king! We—we want nothing more than to see you well."

A wave of agreement, nodding heads. Mike can't stop himself from glancing over, grinning—his grin falls a little when he sees the blank, tight look on his king's face. The overbright glassiness of his eyes.

"Thank you," Chuck says again, and there's a definite, audible tremor under the words. He swallows hard, painful. "I will be."

They wind down quickly after that—which is good, because it's after dark and Chuck's blank, formal Lord Vanquisher mask is cracking more and more with every question. By the time the militia step forward to usher people firmly and politely out of the gates, he's started slipping up—pauses and hesitations, contractions dropping into his court formal.

"...It's past ten," Thurman says, apparently to nobody in particular, and kind of half-glances back at Chuck, who's visibly swaying on the throne. "I'll change the guard."

"I'll post a patrol on the city border," says Ruby, and gives Mike a very pointed look. Mike blinks at her for a second, then down at Chuck, then looks back up at Ruby and nods. Ruby nods back at him, and goes marching away resolutely, hand on her sword.

"Come on, Lord Ass-Kicker," says Texas, and takes Chuck's arm. "Let's go."

"Yeah," mumbles Chuck, and lets himself be supported, lifted up. "Gotta go...shower, sleep, god." He groans and grips Texas's arm, staggering as he stands—Texas hooks an arm around him, and it's a testament to how far gone Chuck is that he doesn't even protest. He only peels himself away from Texas when they reach the elevator.

"Hey," Mike says, "Do you need—"

"Nah," says Chuck vaguely, and wanders into the elevator. When he smiles at them all, there's something...kind of sad about the expression. Mike moves to go after him, but the next second the doors are sliding shut and Chuck is gone.

Mike stares at the closed doors for a long second, and Dutch sighs and pats his back.

"I know, man," he says. "I know. He's gotta go, though."

"...Yeah," Mike says reluctantly, and lets himself be guided toward their tower, trying and failing to drag his eyes away from the place he last saw his king. "Yeah. I know."

The room the Burners have been staying in feels cold and weirdly empty, when they troop tiredly through the door. Like Mike's apartment in Deluxe used to feel when he would come back from a long training camp, abandoned somehow. There's a makeshift patch taped over the window that Dutch broke when he jumped to get away from the Duke. Surprisingly, all their packs and belongings are still lying where they were dropped—albeit kind of trodden-on and crumpled-looking.

Texas immediately heads for the bathroom, already shucking his shirt off, and Mike's heart gives a tired lurch—there's a nasty, spreading bruise all up Texas's left flank, like he got slammed into something hard. Julie sighs, shakes her hair out and stretches—her back pops audibly.

"I think Texas has got the right idea," she says, to nobody in particular. "I'm going to go shower."

"How come I gotta go last?" Dutch mumbles, but he's already dragging himself over to one of the armchairs, slumping down in it and letting out a long sigh of relief. Mike is about to join him, when all of a sudden there's a faint chime and a voice says " _Mike?"_

Mike blinks for a second, staring around, and then scrambles for the source of the noise. There's a faint glow coming from his discarded pack, lying half-shoved under the couch. He pulls it open and takes out the mirror, and Chuck is looking back at him, blinking blearily.

"Yeah?" Mike says eagerly, "I mean—yes, sire?"

" _I need you to come up here for a minute,"_ says Chuck, and scrubs at his face with one hand, voice dropping to a reluctant mumble. " _Just for a minute. I'll return you to your flight quickly, but—_ "

"I—sure!" Mike's limbs are starting to feel disproportionately heavy, energy bright in his chest but increasingly weak and achy in the rest of him—he pushes himself up anyway. "And you—you're my—I mean, unless you don't wanna be part of it, too, 'cause you are."

" _Oh_!" says Chuck, like he...didn't know that, somehow. " _No, I know. Yeah. And I do—I mean, yeah. Just—just get up here, okay?"_

"On my way!" says Mike, and starts toward the door, dropping the mirror back in his bag.

"On your way where?" Julie says, poking her head out of the bathroom. Mike is briefly distracted from his mission by the flash of a slim shoulder and the strap of her bra, spends a brief, guilty second thinking about boobs and then remembers he's needed elsewhere and keeps heading toward the door. "Mike, you need to sleep as much as we do."

"I know!" Mike says. "I know, I will, just—Chuck wants me for something."

"Oh yeah?" Julie's eyebrows rise. "…Well, play nice with him, Cowboy."

"Yeah sure okay thanks Julie bye!" Mike says, all in a rush, and ducks out through the door, setting off through the tower at an eager half-jog. He makes it up to the door of the king's suite in record time—maybe he really is learning how to find his way around—and just barely remembers to stop himself at the door and knock politely.

" _Mike?"_ calls a distant, muffled voice.

"Yessir!" says Mike enthusiastically.

The door creaks open. Mike steps through, looking around—Chuck's nowhere to be seen.

"...Sire?!"

"Through here!"

Mike follows the voice through a door he's never been through, staring up and around with interest. For a second he almost stumbles in the doorway, because the room he's walked into is obviously a bedroom, as big as the Burners' entire suite with a pair of beds shoved together to make a single huge, soft-looking mattress that could—that could easily fit five, okay, yes. They could all fit on the bed, that's an okay thought to have now. Mike's allowed to think that. The bed's not made; there are sheets and blankets everywhere. Pillows are gathered in the middle of it next to a crumpled blanket, in the middle of the wrinkles. The image of Chuck lying huddled up alone in this huge empty room with this huge empty bed makes Mike's chest ache at him again, _nest_ and _mate_ and a whole mess of other things he can't spend time looking at too closely.

But Chuck's not in here. There's another door open off this room, with a light on inside.

When Mike pokes his head through that door, he finds a bathroom that looks almost like the ones the Burners have downstairs. Except that somebody has taken the slightly dingy old shower-bath out of the wall, and replaced it with a huge, old-looking tub that could probably sink a grown man up to the neck. Next to it, there's a towel rack with a big, fluffy towel thrown over it. Next to that, there's Chuck, sitting on the lid of the toilet with his shoes lying next to him, rubbing absently at one foot.

The tub is full of hot water; on a small table set up next to it, somebody has carefully laid out a bar of soap, a stack of clean washcloths, and a folded stack of clothes. Mike stares at the tub, then at his king, waiting for the world to make sense.

"...I gotta get cleaned up," says Chuck, and shrugs, aggressively casual but not quite meeting Mike's eyes. "But, uh. The healing spells you guys did only fixed...cuts, and broken bones and stuff, and I think I pulled a muscle in my arm and that shoulder is burned, and uh..."

"Hey," says Mike mildly, and Chuck stammers silent and stares down at him, eyes wide. Mike cocks his head toward the bath, and dares to let his smile be a little bit wicked at the edges.

"...Need help?"

"Yeah!" Chuck says, kind of squeaky and high-pitched. Clears his throat and lowers his voice about an octave. "Yeah, uh. If...if you're cool with—"

"Totally," says Mike, and edges forward a little. A little more, close enough to touch now. His heart pounds so hard when he gets close, he's sure its's going to pound out of his chest; he's a dragon, and Lord Vanquisher _knows_ and called him a trusted knight anyway, and Mike's allowed to—if he wants, he could...

Chuck catches his breath when Mike leans up on his toes and kisses him gently. A second later he leans into it, just a little; there's a split in his lip where one of Mike's fangs threatens to nick his skin, and his breath tastes like too long awake and not enough water to drink, but it's perfect anyway, just because it's happening. Mike hears himself make that rumbling, growling noise in his chest again as he hooks his fingers under the edges of the king's rumpled dress shirt, sliding them up slow and steady and unrelenting.

" _Ah,_ " says Chuck, kind of a half-gulped syllable, and his skin prickles, goosebumps rising at Mike's touch. "O-oh. Mike, uh, I..."

"Can't have a bath in your clothes, right?" says Mike, and smiles his most disarming smile. The king stares at him for a second, then pins his lower lip in his teeth and nods jerkily, not quite meeting Mike's eyes.

Getting him undressed is like unwrapping a present. Everything about Mike's new-found instincts, everything hot and bright and draconic that's racketing around the inside of his chest, wants him to...to do all sorts of wild things. He's not going to do any of them, because Deluxe may have been a flaming pile of crap but if there's one thing it taught him it's _discipline._ Chuck still hasn't slept, he's too tired and in too much pain to even clean himself up, he's asking for help and Mike's not going to do anything, any of the things he wants right now. But god, he does _want._ Every inch of skin he bares, as he undoes the buttons and slides Chuck's shirt off his shoulders, he _wants._

He probably would have a lot more trouble keeping his resolution when he had to take Chuck's pants off, except Chuck is ludicrously skinny. Mike isn't even trying to, just daring to get a handful of his butt under his slacks, but as soon as the belt is shoved down past the crest of his hipbones Chuck yelps and half-trips and is abruptly just kind of not wearing pants. Mike jumps and then realizes what he did and breaks down into helpless laughter, and he can't stop until Chuck swats him on the back of the head, face scarlet.

"I can do this part by myself," he says. Mike stares at him for a second, holding the discarded shirt in his hands, before the words register. Chuck waits a second, then flaps a hand vaguely in the direction of his underwear, cheeks going vividly red, now. "I can do this part without you _watching,_ dude."

"Oh," says Mike. "Oh, right. Yeah, okay, right."

He turns his back, but he can still hear the sound of fabric sliding, the faint sound of pain as Chuck bends and moves. A few faltering steps and then a soft splash and a muffled _"Ffff—hothothot—_ " that melts into a soft sigh. Water splashes, and Mike doesn't know if it's his imagination, but he'd swear he can hear the faint, slick slide of wet skin on skin. He stares straight ahead, mouth watering.

"Okay," says the king finally, "You can turn around."

Despite the prompt it took for Mike to turn his back, it takes him a second to convince himself to turn back around. He's not a prude or anything—he's been trying a lot of new stuff, in the years since he left Deluxe. But...

"Mike?"

"Yes!" Mike says, and spins back around—too fast, fast enough Chuck jumps a little bit. "—Sorry. Uh, ha. Sorry."

"Yeah," says Chuck. He's pointedly _not_ looking anywhere in Mike's direction; his face is still really flushed, down the back of his neck and across his shoulders, where what should be livid, bone-deep bruises have been magically healed to nasty, blackish-yellow stains. Mike's eyes catch on his back, freckled and scarred; the shape of his legs, pale where they come near the surface of the water. His hair is damp at the ends, going darker gold, sticking to his skin. The urge to lick water off his neck is sudden and almost disturbingly intense.

"Yeah," Mike repeats breathlessly.

"So, uh..." Chuck sinks a little further down under the water, and Mike shakes himself awake and tears his eyes away from the curve of his spine and the scabbed cuts scattered across his skin. "Can I, uh. Have a hand?"

Mike's feelings must show on his face, because a second later Chuck's eyes go wide and he's babbling, "—I mean, I need a, I need some _help_ , just getting cleaned up, ha! Because my, my back, y'know—"

"Oh." Mike blinks, and abruptly feels incredibly dumb. "Yeah! Yeah, totally, of course."

"Good," says the king, and pulls his knees up to his chin, bonking his forehead against them and hiding his scarlet face from Mike's sight. His voice comes out muffled. "Yes, good, fine, cool."

He shoves a rag and a bar of familiar-smelling, sweet-spicy soap into Mike's hands, and shuffles around in the tub until he's sitting almost sideways, baring his back pointedly. Mike stare from the rag to the bare skin in front of him for a second, dry-mouthed and paralyzed and amazed by his luck, and then swallows and lathers up the rag, kneeling up at the side of the tub to run it carefully across the arc of one sharp shoulderblade. Chuck shudders all over at the touch, and then goes still and just lets Mike work.

The insides of his arms are soft and smooth, but his forearms, his back, his shoulders are all lined with scar after scar, spell after spell. Mike traces them with the soapy cloth and then, when that makes the king sigh softly and lean back into his touch, follows the touch with his fingertips. The sigil on the back of the king's neck that watches his back for him, the chain of runes down his spine. A pair of arching, intertwined spell-forms across the crest of each shoulder-blade. The room is almost silent except for the faint splash of water—every so often, Mike will touch a scar and Chuck will shiver all over, a wave of muscle tensing and relaxing, up his back and down his bare arms. Every so often, Mike will run the rag over his skin and a cut will break open, drops of pink water sliding down the scarred lines.

Mike is about two seconds from leaning in and kissing the pale crook of one shoulder when Chuck sighs and shifts his weight in the tub, pulling away from Mike's hand and giving his head a sharp shake like he's trying to wake up. "Okay," he says, kind of quiet and rough, but businesslike. "Cool. Thanks."

"You're...welcome?" Mike blinks, startled by the sudden change of atmosphere, then sits back as Chuck grabs a handful of water and splashes it over his hair, combing it through with his fingers. "So, uh..."

"Turn around for a sec."

"Okay," says Mike, defeated, and shuffles around on the stool. He can hear water slosh, then wet footsteps on the ground, then more cloth moving. When he finally gets a "Okay, you're good" and turns back, Chuck is wrapped up in a slightly threadbare towel big enough to be a small blanket. He looks starkly exhausted, but he grins when he catches Mike looking and sticks a hand out to wave.

"Clothes," he says.

"Yeah," says Mike, a little more despondently than he means to, and then flushes as Chuck snorts at him. " _Dude._ "

"Clothes," Chuck repeats, and yawns hugely. "...And then you need to sleep as bad as I do. 'M sorry for...dragging you up here."

"Don't worry about it," says Mike, whose eyes fixed on a flash of one bare leg and can't quite let go of the sight. "No, it's, uh. It's fine."

Chuck has him turn around as he picks out clothes, and while he puts on pants, but he enlists Mike's help to pull on a shirt. If Mike maybe gets a little bit closer than he has to, he thinks that's probably excusable. If he takes the opportunity to run a palm along the smooth stretch of Chuck's lower back, that's probably all anybody could expect from him. And besides, if the way Chuck's breath catches is any indication, he doesn't mind at all.

He doesn't seem to mind when Mike steps in close, either, or when Mike kisses his lips, his cheek, the side of his neck. He doesn't touch Mike back, though—just kind of slumps against him, dead weight. Mike can bear his weight easily, but he can also feel the exhaustion weighing Chuck down like lead, and a hot swell of something like pity overwhelms his want.

"You should come sleep with us," he says into the soft skin behind one ear, and feels Chuck shudder all over. Now that the smell of sweat and fear is gone, he just smells _good._ Warm and good. "...'ll keep you safe."

"I'm safe in my room," Chuck says, but it comes out kind of thin and breathy as Mike nuzzles into his neck. "Ah _-hh_ , Mike..."

"Mmhm?"

"I—I don't think I can—"

"Sorry." Mike takes one last breath and then forces himself to pull back, still supporting his king's weight, refusing to lean back in. "Nah, I mean, me neither. I'm just...I'm really happy, dude."

Chuck blinks at him for a second, uncomprehending, and then softens a little and grins at him.

"You look a lot better," he says. "Like this."

"Like what?"

"Happy." Chuck shrugs, reaches up and rubs a thumb past Mike's cheekbone. The sensation is weirdly muffled—Mike reaches up and touches his face, and feels scales under his fingertips. "Yourself. I dunno." He glances over at the bed, undecided, and then back at Mike. "I should...I should have something to eat, first—"

"Are you actually gonna eat, if I leave you up here?" Mike points out, and knows he's hit the nail on the head by the way Chuck's eyes slide away from his guiltily. "You're gonna pass out either way, sire, you should be with us. It's safer."

Chuck sighs, glances back at the bed one more time and then looks back up at Mike, lips thinned in determination. "Okay," he says. "...Okay. Fine, sure. Let's go downstairs."

"What?" says Mike, and then, "Oh! Oh, man, seriously? Yeah, cool! You don't have to, it's kinda a walk—"

"I'm not going to collapse because I have to walk down the castle," says Chuck dryly, and then squeaks in shock as Mike reaches down and hooks an arm under his knees and behind his shoulders. "Whoa, what—?!"

"You're _not_ gonna collapse," Mike agrees, and hefts the king's weight easily up into his arms. "...Because I'm gonna carry you there."

"Oh my god," says Chuck weakly. "Mike, put me down."

It's an order, but...he's already relaxing into Mike's arms, and there's not a lot of force behind the words. Mike hesitates just a split second, then grins and holds his king just a little bit tighter instead. "Sorry sire," he says, and feels Chuck sigh and drop his head against one of Mike's shoulders. "No can do."

"Sir _Chilton_."

"Lord _Vanquisher,_ " Mike says, and starts out into the hallway. "Don't worry, if we run into any guards I'll just tell 'em I'm kidnapping you for my hoard. They'd get it."

Chuck mumbles something that sounds incredibly rude, but Mike can't hear what the words are so it doesn't matter. He laughs, settles his king a little more firmly in his arms, and starts walking.

The other Burners are sitting up when Mike gets back, obviously waiting for him. Somebody has pulled the cushions off the couch, the extra pillows out of the closet and off the chairs, and piled them all together on the ground. Everybody is clean, everybody looks exhausted. They don't look surprised to see him carrying the king in his arms. Mike smiles helplessly around at all of them and kneels down with painstaking care to settle down in the spot they open up for him.

He's half-expecting Chuck to immediately scramble out of his lap, but instead Chuck just sighs and slumps down against his shoulder, and holy crap, he fell asleep while Mike was carrying him down here. He _fell asleep_ in Mike's arms. Mike stares around at the other Burners, eyes round, struggling as incredible, crushing warmth and affection war with a kind of strange terror inside him. Texas chortles—quietly—and reaches out to pat Mike's head, then glares defiantly around at everybody else and leans over top of Dutch to kiss Mike briefly on the lips. Then he flops back over on his corner of the pillow nest, turns his back and apparently goes to sleep. At least, pretends to. His ears are bright red.

Julie lays a hand on Chuck's back, between his shoulder blades, and just rests it there for a second, then looks up at Mike, smiles and kisses him too.

"... _Get some sleep, cowboy,_ " she whispers.

"Not yet," Dutch mumbles from Mike's other side, and leans in to peck Mike quickly on the cheek. "...Okay, now get some sleep."

The crushing, burning glow inside him isn't subsiding. If anything it's getting worse, and—and Mike might die, he might actually die. Or turn into a giant lizard, maybe if he was bigger he could contain this better. Or maybe the feelings would get bigger with him, which is almost unbearable to think about. But maybe it would help? He can't really transform here, though, he'd wake Chuck up.

He's still trying to figure out how to breathe through the way he feels when the soft, comfortable heaviness in all of his limbs makes its way to his brain. Mike settles in, breathing in his flight all around him, and _finally_ falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Rib fractures R4-6, L7; encourage respiratory function, regular low-level healing, cough and deep breathe  
> \- Occipital fracture; no evidence of bleed/hematoma, healing spell per topaz dragon appears adequate, cont to monitor  
> \- Superficial lac; dressing changes daily while healing, moderate healings BID  
> \- Dragonfire burn; appears healed, no concerns at this time, appreciate his majesty's assitance in studying process of healing  
> \- Risk for spell-fever/exhaustion syndrome; increase oral intake, no strenuous physical activity or magical output x4 days  
> \- F/U appointment with medical staff daily and PRN, report changes in condition immediately
> 
> \-- Note of medical recommendations, palace doctor of the Raymanthian court.


	14. Royal Flight, Dragon Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Presenting Sir Chilton, the Smiling Dragon and defender of his people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Save A Horse; Ride A Dragon"
> 
> \-- Painted under a half-finished mural of Lord Vanquisher sweeping Sir Chilton off his feet, larger than life on the side of one of the palace walls. Sir Chilton has an eight-pack. Lord Vanquisher is sparkling.

Mike wakes up feeling _incredible._ No bad dreams, no agonizing emptiness in his chest. He's warm and pleasantly sore, like he just had a tough workout—his chest does ache a little, but it's not like somebody hacked into him and hollowed him out. It's not like before.

He's also in bed, and doesn't remember moving there. He pushes himself up, blinking around muzzily—the other Burners aren't there. And Chuck's not either.

Mike rolls out of bed, springs up to his feet and hurries out the door. Sunlight dazzles his eyes for a second—when he blinks it away, he sees his Burners sitting around on the re-assembled couch and armchairs. Dutch has dragged a coffee table in from somewhere, and has a bunch of old tech laid out on it along with a handful of incredibly tiny tools; when he looks up and sees Mike, his eyebrows rise.

"...Nice _look_ , man," he says. Mike looks down at himself for the first time, and feels his cheeks heat up. Somebody obviously took his shirt and his jeans off—or helped him to—before they put him to bed. He didn't even take the time to think about the fact that walking out in nothing but a slightly ratty pair of old boxers might not be the best idea. But then again, Dutch only looks like he's half-joking, eyes still kind of roaming over Mike's bare chest.

Mike still isn't sure he can face whatever's going on in here without pants on. He beats a hasty retreat back into his room, leans on the door and takes deep breaths for a second, and then tears through his clothes and finds a clean pair of jeans.

He was wrong, about nothing hurting. When he reaches up to drag his fingers through his messy hair, his nails accidentally drag across a patch of skin on the back of his neck that stings like a hornet. Mike jumps, hissing, and then turns his back to the mirror and cranes to see...oh.

The oath-breaker scar is dark on the nape of his neck, over the faded pink lines where there used to be lash-marks. The pain from the whipping has almost faded—hasn't bothered him since he transformed—but that scar still burns when he touches it, no matter how gently. Mike can vaguely remember, in a blur of pain and anger and despair, the whipping after the Duke collared him. He'd been bearing it until the tip of the lash hit the scar on the back of his neck and the pain had sent him straight out of his head. He'd woken up god knows how much later, slumped on the floor next to the throne in the dark.

The memory of that brief stretch of time—collared, in pain, alone, not knowing where his king or his flight had gone, dreading being sent out to hunt them down—is starting up an unfamiliar, unhappy churning in his gut. Mike swallows on the bile in the back of his throat and forces himself to let out the breath he's holding. Takes his hand away from the scar. This is familiar, he knows how this goes. Numbness, and then awful, over-sensitive pain, and then finally just a faint ache to the touch. This one is barely two fingers wide, and only on the nape of his neck, it's not going to be anything like as bad as Kane's scar. Mike can handle this. He'll be fine.

He doesn't put on a shirt, though. The thought of anything rubbing back and forth over that scar, even the collar of a shirt, is unbearable. Besides... Dutch seemed to like looking.

 _Everybody_ is looking when he comes back out. Mike shoves his hands in his pockets, strolls over and sits down decisively on the couch, careful to avoid touching the back of his neck to the fabric.

He didn't notice Chuck from across the room—kind of assumed he left early in the morning to do king stuff. But when he sits down, he catches a flash of bright, golden hair and realizes that Chuck is curled up into a pointy ball of knees and elbows, nuzzled up against Texas's shoulder with his face buried in Texas's neck. Texas is holding onto him, looking kind of vaguely startled by his good luck and occasionally squeezing his shoulders. For a second, just seeing that feels so good Mike has to stop, smiling at his flight. They're all together, finally, and happy, and safe, and—

…And Chuck looks…really, really bad.

"You look really bad," Mike says, and Chuck blinks and then glances back at him and groans. His eyes are red and swollen; the irises are faded to dull grey, around pupils that are dilated to wide, dark pits. His cheeks look flushed, blotchy and feverish, but underneath the pink they look grayish and pale.

"I told him he needed to take it easy," Julie says, not without sympathy. "You can't just drain yourself down to rock bottom and then go running around like nothing happened. Spell-fever 101."

Chuck doesn't answer that, just groans again and turns his face into Texas's shoulder.

"Spell-fever?" Mike's heard of it, but he thought— "Can't we just—get you something to eat? I thought that was supposed to cure it?"

" _Prevent_ it," Dutch corrects. "Can't cure spell-fever."

"I'm not, it's, n-not—" Chuck shudders, curling in on himself miserably. His voice is a tiny, unhappy mumble, and Mike only resists for a second before realizing…it's okay now. He's allowed to sit down on the couch, pull Chuck halfway up onto his lap, wrap an arm around Texas. It feels so good he barely hears Chuck keep talking. "—'S like, an infection, but it's not contagious. And, and once you get it you just have to, _hhh_ handle it. Until it goes away. 'M fine."

"It's not like…being hungry," Julie explains, and Chuck makes a vague noise of acknowledgement. He's still shivering, and when Mike manages to get a hold of one of his hands it's hot and damp and sweaty. "You don't have spell-fever, eat and get better. You're vulnerable to spell-fever as long as you're drained, and if you catch it, it'll hang on until you get over it."

Chuck makes a tiny, strangled noise and curls up even tighter as another round of vicious shivers goes rattling through him. Texas pats his back a couple of times, like he's not sure he's doing it right, and Chuck buries his face in Texas's chest and groans, long and low and despondent.

"We already ordered breakfast," says Julie, and then, perfectly even and almost deadpan, "—If anybody's still hungry with all this beefcake lying around."

"What?" says Mike, and then sputters as Dutch raises both hands, grinning now, and snaps a picture of his bare chest. "Hey!"

Texas chortles—even Chuck gives a wheezy kind of chuckle, and Texas glances down at him and grins. Chuck snickers, scrubs at his sweaty eyes—glances up and catches Texas staring down at him. His smile falters a little.

"...What?"

"Dunno," says Texas. "You okay?"

"Not _really_ ," says Chuck, with a kind of ragged good humor, and waves a hand at his ashy face and bloodshot eyes. "I just said—"

"Not because of the fever," says Texas, and reaches out to takes Chuck's face in one hand, lifting his chin firmly. "About the _Duke,_ skinny. No way you're cool with that."

Chuck stares at him for a long second, like the words don't register. Then he jerks and pulls his face away from Texas's hand, lips thinning. "I'm fine," he says, and there's a cool, hard edge to his voice. "He was a traitor. He's gone. That's all there is to it."

His voice shakes on the words, just a little, but his expression stays even and neutral, doggedly blank. The words ring something in Mike's head— _he was evil I don't care I'm fine—_ It's...familiar. Mike's thought some pretty similar stuff before, especially in the desperate, half-feral days after he escaped from Deluxe. He wonders, briefly, if he was this transparent.

"If, uh," he starts, and Chuck tenses up like he's expecting a blow, sitting up entirely and pulling out from under Texas's arm. Mike stops again, then starts, more carefully, "If you don't wanna talk about it, we don't have to."

"Good," says Chuck shortly.

"But—"

"Because I don't," Chuck says over top of him. His arms are folded, wrapped around himself miserably. His head is still held high, his back almost painfully straight, but he's not quite meeting any of their eyes. "Because there's nothing to talk about."

"You can't bottle stuff up," Texas says, frowning. "My nanay always said that's real bad for you."

"Maintaining _composure,_ " Chuck says, "Is a necessity of my position. I am not ' _bottling stuff up'._ "

"Whoa, hey." Texas raises his hands, startled by the shift to formal. "All I'm sayin' is—"

"No!" Chuck slams a hand down on the arm of the couch, so sharp and sudden it makes everybody jump. For a brief second, his eyes blaze blue. "This is not a topic for discussion!"

"Chuck!" Mike reaches out and grabs his shoulder. Chuck stiffens at his touch, jerking around, and his magic is almost entirely exhausted but his eyes spark anyway, a sharp, prickling jolt. If Mike had normal, thin, human skin, it would sting him into letting go—but he's not human, and he doesn't let go. "Chuck," he says again, as soothing as he can. "You don't have to do that. We don't think you're—weak, or whatever. We just wanna help."

Chuck holds his eyes for a second, and then looks abruptly away. His hair hangs in his eyes when it's loose, hiding his face.

"I'm not weak," he says.

"We know," says Dutch, and reaches out tentatively to touch his other shoulder. "It ain't weak to just..."

"I know," says Chuck, and twists a little, away from Mike and Dutch's hands. The cold, commanding look is gone, but all that's left behind is a blank kind of numbness, haggard and pale and sick. "...I can't. Can't afford—" He stops, rubs his face with both hands. "I'm not upset," he says clearly, quiet but sure. "And I— I like you guys. A lot. But if you don't stop, I'm leaving."

Mike chews his lip, glances up and meets the others' eyes. Julie looks quietly pained, Dutch looks conflicted. Texas is scowling, apparently in deep thought. Chuck sniffs, not looking at any of them, and rubs a hand past his sweaty forehead.

"...I need to go and..." he swings his legs off the couch, struggling onto his feet. "...Some water, just, uh, the bathroom, where—?"

"Let me help," says Julie, and ignores Chuck's faint, protesting noise, taking his arm. "Don't be stupid. You're drained, you need help. Nothing wrong with that."

"'M not stupid," Chuck says, small and tight and bitter, but he lets himself be supported, limping carefully toward the door to the bathroom. Julie is short enough, and he's tall enough, her head only comes up to his chest. She puts an arm around him in support anyway.

Mike watches them go, chewing on his lip, until a hand touches his knee. When he turns back, Dutch is grinning at him. Mike opens his mouth to go "what, dude?" and Dutch leans in and kisses him again, so suddenly it kind of strikes Mike dumb, just a little bit.

"Uh," he says, when Dutch pulls back. "Thanks!"

Texas chortles. Dutch's smile creases his eyes, dark and fond, and—it doesn't stop the worry gnawing at Mike's gut, but it definitely helps distract him from it.

"Can't believe I get to do that, finally," says Dutch, and sits back. He leaves his hand on Mike's knee, which is...just really nice. It's nice.

"You can smooch Texas too," Texas points out, and Dutch rolls his eyes but leans over and kisses Texas too. "And Julie too, she's way prettier than Mike. And Chuck too."

"Mm," says Dutch.

That's not the reaction _Mike_ has when he thinks about kissing Chuck. "What?" he says, a little faster than he means to. "What's up?"

"Huh?" Dutch shakes his head. "Oh—don't look at me like that, man. I like him, he's a cool guy. Don't know if I'm really into him yet, that's all."

"Oh," says Mike. Dutch can apparently read some of how Mike's feeling off his face, because he squeezes Mike's shoulder comfortingly.

"I mean, I wouldn't say no if he was into me," he says, and looks over his shoulder at the door Chuck went through, considering. "...I like how he looks, and he's a really fun guy—I like him, Mike, seriously, you don't hafta give me those big sad eyes. Just...takes me a while to get into people like you're into him." He shrugs. "...But...does sound like 'a while' is somethin' we've got, now. So."

"Yeah." That thought is both incredibly comforting and weirdly intimidating. Mike shakes it off, smiles instead. "Yeah! Uh…" another thought occurs to him—one he forgot to worry about, since all the chaos that went down over the past few days. "So…so you and Tennie are…?"

"Still doin' great," says Dutch firmly. "We're not the same kinda thing this is." He shrugs. "…Whatever this is. The Cablers got all kinda ways of doing things we don't…wonder if they've ever heard about anything like this. Five people, I mean."

"I bet," says Texas sagely. "I mean, if everybody knows about it, ain't like it's cheating, right?"

"Dragons have been doin' it for thousands of years," Dutch agrees. "Always seemed to work for them."

Mike is still trying to figure out how he feels about that when there's a sudden, soft knock at the door. Texas jumps up first, jogs over and throws it open, and Mike's head whips around as familiar smells hit him like a slap in the face—bacon, fresh fruit, eggs, _food_. His stomach gives a sudden, loud growl.

"Yeah, me too," says Dutch, and slaps him on the back. "I'm gonna go help Texas carry. How about you go get Julie and his majesty?"

"...They have been gone a while," says Mike, distracted from his hunger. "Yeah—yeah, I'll be right back."

It doesn't take him long to find them. He's expecting to get all the way to the bathroom, but instead he steps into next room over and immediately comes to a halt, heart sinking in his chest.

Chuck is collapsed down against the wall next to one of the beds, huddled in on himself—he's breathing too fast, too deep, like he did when Mike found him after the Ambassador's dinner. Julie is kneeling down next to him, murmuring to him. Mike's heart twists painfully.

"...Hide it from us," Julie is saying, gentler than Mike has ever heard her. Her fingers run through Chuck's hair, squeeze the back of his neck. "We get it, it's _okay_."

Chuck says something so quiet Mike can't hear him. Julie makes a soft, pained noise, wraps a thin arm around his shoulders and holds on. "No," she says. "It's just the spell-fever—it's just the fever, okay? You'll feel better soon."

"Feels _bad,_ " Chuck says, choked and wet, and Mike realizes with a jolt his shoulders are shaking as he pulls in those big, gasping breaths. "I, I should be able to—I can't— I hate, I hate it, I don't wanna— _hh—"_

"It's the fever," Julie says again, and Chuck sobs, voice breaking. "...I get angry, when I catch it—yours just makes you sad, that's all. It's scary, losing control, but you're... You're okay."

Chuck nods, jerky, huddles in on himself instead of hugging her back. Julie doesn't seem to mind. She has to kneel up to hold onto him.

Neither of them seems to notice Mike, and he can't bring himself to move. Just stands there, heart aching, frozen and uncertain. Feeling every sob like a knife twisting in him, but not knowing what to say, what to do. How to fix it.

It's a long minute before Chuck's sobbing dies back down and he catches his breath. He slumps against Julie's shoulder, sniffs, mumbles something too quietly to hear.

"No," Julie says. "They wouldn't, of _course_ they wouldn't."

"I'm—the king, I'm—I can't—"

"They want to take care of you," Julie says, cutting over top of him. "We don't _care_ if you're the king, we want to help when you're upset—you don't have to hide, we can _help_ you. You don't have to do this alone anymore."

Chuck jerks all over and makes a wordless, broken little noise, trying to cover his face with his hands, and Mike can't bear this anymore. He pushes through the door, drops down on his knees and wraps his arms around Chuck's chest, feeling him jerk and shudder. Sob and try to twist away so he can curl back in on himself. Julie jumps, tensing, and then sees who it is and relaxes a little. She meets Mike's eyes, and he can see some of the helpless unhappiness he's feeling reflected there.

"I can't let this—" Chuck starts, choked and small, and one of his hands drags at Mike's arm, tugging at it weakly for a second before he loses strength and just holds on, struggling to keep his voice steady and failing with every word. "I can't be—like this, I can't, he _left,_ he didn't care, I shouldn't..."

"He was your dad," says Julie.

Mike's ribs squeeze like a vice. Chuck's breath catches hard—Julie grabs his shoulders, holding on tight. "No, don't. Listen. You… You know who I am. I know you know who I am, and I know you've seen Mike's scar—we _get it_. And y'know what, I've been where you are, I remember, and it hurts! It hurt when it happened, and it still hurts. You can't pretend it doesn't. You don't _have to_ pretend it doesn't. Do you remember what we talked about?"

"What you...?" Mike starts to repeat, but Chuck is already nodding, jerky and small. Julie nods too.

"If Texas is noticing something's off, there's no point pretending you're okay," she says, instead of explaining whatever it was she's talking about. "I know why you yelled, I get it, but we're not trying to hurt you, or get under your skin, or whatever it feels like we're doing."

Chuck nods again. The urgent tension is going out of him the longer Mike holds on—he's not a small guy, but his body feels incredibly small and fragile in Mike's arms. His head is a warm, heavy weight on Mike's shoulder, bumping Mike's jaw as he moves.

"...Can I hug you again?"

Chuck hesitates for a long second, and then nods minutely. Julie smiles, leans forward and—oh, and that feels really good and right, the way her arms wrap around Mike and press their king in close between them, her head on his other shoulder. Mike gets an arm free, wraps it around Julie's shoulders, and holds on until whoever is trembling finally stops.

When they get back to the room, the tabletop is completely covered with trays of food. Dutch and Texas jerk apart as the door opens, looking startled, concerned and flustered in equal measures. Texas's bun is rumpled like Dutch had a hand in his hair, and Dutch looks noticeably more flushed and disoriented than he did when Mike left.

They both scoot back abruptly when Mike, Chuck and Julie come back in—and then they catch sight of Chuck's miserable, blotchy face and the tear-tracks on his cheeks, and both of them jump up from the couch like it's suddenly red-hot. "Hey, Texas didn't mean—" Texas starts saying, and "Whoa, man, we weren't—" Dutch says, and both of them come hurrying over.

Julie nudges Chuck a little bit—he glances over at her, then back at Mike, and then takes a cautious step forward and holds out a hand.

"I..." he starts, wavering and breaking, and Texas takes five decisive steps, crosses the space between them and bypasses Chuck's outstretched hand to pull him into a spine-cracking squeeze. Chuck squeaks breathlessly, wavering with leftover tears, and Dutch makes a noise like he can't decide whether to laugh or not.

"Look, Chuck, we didn't mean to push—"

"Texas is still working on beefing up his _brain muscle_ and his super-powerful _heart muscle_ sometimes gets all worked up and he says stuff he doesn't—"

"Tex," Mike says, half laughing and half concerned by the unrelenting tightness of Texas's grip, "—dude, you're gonna break something, ease up!"

"You're a good dude, and— No I'm _not,_ Tiny, his Vanquisherness can take a little squeezin' love!"

"—If it's too raw or somethin', I was a mess after I left Deluxe—"

"I think we all were," Julie points out, and glances over to meet Mike's eyes. He's not...completely sure he's okay with that look and the way it seems to dig into his soul, so he turns away and focuses on prying Texas's arm away instead.

"—Skinny little nerd, you kinda look like one, but—"

"Hey," says Chuck faintly, but Texas isn't listening. "—And you don't have to _cry!"_ he finishes, and slaps Chuck so hard on the back he squeaks again. Texas sniffs hard, shakes off Mike's hand on his arm and goes back to squeezing Chuck so hard his face goes red. "Only bad boyfriends make their boyfriends cry!"

" _Boyfriend?_ " Chuck wheezes, at the same time as Mike blurts "— _Boyfriend?_ "

"Yeah, _boyfriend,_ " Texas says, and loosens his grip a little, frowning at Mike past Chuck's shoulder. "What'd you think was goin' on?"

"I..." Mike tries for words for a second, then shakes his head, kind of stunned. "I don't—I mean..."

"I mean, yeah, fancy dragon boyfriend," says Texas. "Flight boyfriend, or whatever."

Somehow, in all the rightness of making them—his mates, flight, _his_ —the word _boyfriend_ never really popped up in Mike's mind. "I, uh," he says, and finds he doesn't really have anything to add after that. "I—huh. Uh..."

"Y'know, 'cause _we're_ not dragons," says Texas. "But I still wanna touch his majesty's butt, so if he's cool with that—"

"Oh my god," says Chuck, and drops his face into Texas's hair, snickering uncontrollably. Texas finally stops talking, apparently startled, and then eschews a few careful back-pats. Chuck accepts them with good grace, face still hidden in Texas's hair. When he pulls his face away, his cheeks are dry again, but his voice is still audibly shaky.

"I shouldn't've yelled," he says, and sniffs. Lets his head drop forward, muffling his voice against Texas's temple. "I was never a-allowed—I can't be, I mean, I can't _show_ —"

"...It's not like you gotta go cry in front of the whole court," Dutch says. "But you can, with us. It's never gonna feel good, but it feels a lot better, cryin' with...with somebody there, to help you out."

Nobody seems to want to let go of anybody. Eventually, the whole group kind of migrates slowly over to the couches, where Mike and Texas get Chuck nestled securely in between them. Dutch and Julie pull up chairs on either side of the couch, close enough everybody's legs tangle together.

The breakfast the others ordered is ridiculously huge, but so is Mike's appetite. Everybody packs down a pretty surprising amount of food, between yesterday's chaos and magical energy debts from their fights. Chuck looks a little green at first, picking noncommittally at the toast and eggs and sausages—eventually he manages a piece of bacon, and then some toast, and then he makes a kind of groaning noise and starts to eat his way steadily through about half a platter of breakfast food.

"I've gotta go hold court again," he says eventually, when the trays have been reduced to a few sad scraps and the rest of the Burners have turned to cautiously sampling a variety of exotic fruit juices. "There's...repairs to go oversee, and—"

"Ruby's handling repairs," says Julie immediately. "I delegated for you."

"Oh," says Chuck, and then rallies a little. "But, I mean, I still have to—"

"No you don't," says Julie. "The Brightwater ambassador is going out to tour the city—with a protection detail, come on, of course we didn't just turn her out on her own."

Chuck closes his mouth again, looking slightly abashed. "...Mike would," he says.

"Well, Mike was getting some sleep," Julie says, with dignity. "And I'm not Mike."

"I wouldn't have!" Mike protests, hurt. "I was a palace guard, Jules, come on."

"You took _me_ out on my own!" Chuck points out.

"I was with you though!" Chuck's _safe_ if he goes out with Mike, that's not a fair comparison at all and— "What? Dude, what's so funny?"

"Nothing," says Chuck, still laughing a little bit, and reaches out to grab another piece of bacon, shaking his head. "Nothing." And then, before Mike can say anything to that, "So...is she okay, though?"

"I think so," says Julie brightly. "This has been a really _really_ weird weekend, but she knows it wasn't your fault."

They lapse into a comfortable silence for a while after that. Dutch clears the trays off the table and goes back to poking delicately at his little, ancient machines, and Texas gets some of his hand weights out of his bag and starts meditatively doing bicep curls, Julie produces a hefty book with a plain black cover out of nowhere and starts reading with interest. Every so often she'll lean over and show a passage to Chuck, murmuring something under her breath—Chuck looks... _super_ flustered, but he also grins at her, kind of shy and pleased. So that's okay.

"...So," says Texas finally, breaking the silence. "What were the good times like?"

"The..." Chuck frowns, brows furrowing. "The what?"

"With the Duke," Texas clarifies, rough and uncompromising, and this time Chuck only winces a little bit. "There's gotta have been good times, that's how they getcha."

"Who?" says Julie, startled. Texas huffs, shrugs elaborately and doesn't quite meet her eyes.

"Y'know, people," he says. "Assholes."

Mike grimaces, but Chuck just lets out a weak, wet little giggle. "Yeah," he says, and sniffs. "Yeah, uh. He was...different. He was really different, when I met him." His voice gets stronger second by second, steadying. "I mean, he was still kinda scary, he was _crazy_ , but he seemed like he was...just really having fun?"

Privately, Mike finds it hard to believe the Duke could possibly be more of a flamboyant, self-centered peacock than he was while the Burners were around. He doesn't say that, thought. Chuck's face is full of a kind of warm agonized fondness that rings way too true. Too...familiar.

"He was always making up songs," Chuck says, soft and distant. His eyes are unfocused, looking straight through Mike to somewhere far away and a long time ago. "Dancing around. Doing a bunch of crazy poses, coming up with this—off the wall stuff. But..." And that far-off light fades, and Chuck's face goes tight and unhappy again. "He changed. The longer we were at war—the longer I was king. He just...changed." His eyes flicker down; his thumb traces back and forth over one of the scars on the back of his hand. He opens his mouth again, but whatever he's thinking he doesn't say it. Just shakes his head slowly, tracing that scar over and over again.

"I," Mike says, convulsive and sudden, breaking the silence so sharply he almost surprises himself. "When I was a kid, uh. Kane used to be...he was strict, y'know, he was a king, but he'd stop and talk to me all the time."

He's never talked about this, really, not even to the others. He can feel them watching him, he knows they're thinking... Well. He knows they're thinking about him. About him and Kane, feeling bad for him, when there's nothing to feel bad for. Mike straightens his back, raises his chin, gives the circle of watching faces an almost defiant glare. Dutch and Texas only meet his eyes for a minute before looking away; Julie catches his gaze and holds it, lips thin and eyes very focused.

"He's the only reason I made it through mom dying," he says, challenging, not letting his voice waver, refusing to look away. "And then he used my fire to—" and those words he chokes on, remembering the sudden rush of heat in his chest, the smell of smoke, the sound of distant screaming in his ears. Mike tries to start again, furious at the way his voice strangles in his chest—again, hearing the faint sound of his own voice warped and distorted by a feral, animalistic snarl. "He _burned—_ "

"Hey," says Dutch quietly. Mike jumps as a hand takes his arm—snarls, catches himself, breathes out. His body is trying to react to the remembered horror and shock, horns and fangs growing longer, breath hot in his throat. Dutch jumps at the snarl, but doesn't let go, and a second later Mike slumps back, breathing hard, forcing it back down again. Geez, you'd think the memory would hurt less, after he's been shoving it to the back of his mind for so long.

"I'm fine, though," he says.

"Yeah, right," says Texas. "I thought we were _just_ talkin' about this, tiny, you're _not fine._ You're not fine, and Vanquisher ain't fine, Julie's not fine, probably—"

"Yes I am," says Julie.

"Uh-huh," says Texas. "Sounds like somethin' a person who wasn't fine would say."

Chuck wrinkles his nose, vaguely disgruntled. "I mean, by that logic, nobody's fine?"

"Yeah, 'kay," says Texas solidly. "So nobody's fine. Except Texas."

"Sounds like something a person who wasn't fine would say," mumbles Chuck, not quite under his breath, and Mike has to snort and then laugh outright at the affronted look on Texas's face.

Chuck insists on leaving the tower for lunch, and by that point Mike is jumpy enough the rest of the Burners end up agreeing. Chuck had another session with a healer while Mike was sleeping in, and his body is almost entirely healed—he's not limping or groaning anymore, but he still goes through terrible, racking fits of shivers sometimes, or doubles over against Mike's side, holding his stomach. Mike spends the walk from the tower down to the kitchens keeping a wary watch on his king out of the corner of his eye, half-expecting him to finally crumple over at any second. But they make it down to the kitchen and then up to one of the throne room galleries with only a couple of wobbles.

Chuck looks kind of sick when faced with the prospect of actual food, but just like with breakfast all it takes is a bite or two to get him going and then he starts wolfing food down like a starving man, more food than it seems like his skinny body should have room for. Every so often his pace slackens off, and Mike catches him staring down at his hands, eyes wide and distant and too bright; he snaps out of it when Mike touches his shoulder, pulling up a hasty smile instead. Mike thinks about not being fine, and about nobody being fine, and doesn't say anything, when that happens. Just puts a hand on Chuck's shoulder or an arm around him or sits a little bit closer. It's hard to tell, but Chuck seems to appreciate it, he thinks.

They're just finished, and starting the long, slow wander back toward their room, when Chuck comes to an abrupt halt at the head of the party. The other Burners stop too, startled, and Mike follows Chuck's gaze and sees a head of fiery red hair and a pair of gleaming lenses catch the light. Thurman is scaling up the stairs toward them with a couple of books under one arm and a mirror in his free hand. Ruby is backing up the stairs behind him, squinting down at the repairs that are being done to the tiled floor of the throne room. Chuck pulls himself up straight, reaches up to fix his crown, notices he doesn't have one, straightens his clothes instead and squares his shoulders.

"Hey, Thurman!" says Mike.

Thurman just shoved his mirror into the back of his jeans and was halfway through redistributing his stack of books into two more manageable stacks; he blinks, stares around, and then catches sight of the burners. He brightens, opens his mouth, and then freezes, eyes going wide.

"Uh, sire!" he says. Ruby whips around behind him, sees Chuck and springs to attention. Chuck's expression stays blank and royal and distant, but one foot kicks Mike sharply in the ankle under cover of his cloak. "I did not know—"

"Thurman," says Mike again, firmly. "This is Chuck. he likes magic and he writes papers about magic...stuff."

"Wh—huh?" says Thurman.

"He also likes stories and he's really good at fighting," says Mike, this time to Ruby. She's giving him a look that could probably take a couple years off his lifespan. "So!"

"Sir _Chilton_ ," starts Ruby, with a tone a lot like warning in her voice.

"Chuck," says Mike, louder over top of Ruby, hurrying on. "This is Thurman. You met him one time, he likes talkin' about magic. And this is Ruby, she's into kicking ass."

"Uh," says Chuck, very high-pitched, and throws Mike a pleading, startled look. Mike widens his eyes meaningfully, glances at Ruby and Thurman and back to Chuck. Chuck stares at him for a second, then looks at his knights and takes a very, very deep breath.

"Hi," he says, perfectly clear and deliberately informal.

There's a moment of stunned silence, and then Ruby bursts out "Hi!" loud and abrupt like she's been holding it back for years. "I mean, good morning!"

"Yeah," says Thurman, kind of breathlessly. "Hi, uh—" And then his eyes narrow abruptly—a familiar spark of magic flashes along the lenses of his glasses. Recognition dawns on his face like a sudden sunrise. "... _Oh_ ," he says. "Oh! It's you!"

"It's me!" says Chuck, with a sickly, nervous kind of grin.

"I mean, I know you!" Thurman straightens his glasses, peering through the thick glass. "We met out in the city! Oh man, I _knew_ you were using a glamour spell!"

"Right." Chuck twitches, forces himself still again, forces himself to move again. Rubs one scarred forearm nervously with the other hand. "Sorry for, uh. Lying."

"I mean, technically you didn't!" Thurman's grinning now, distracted from his awkwardness by a kind of weird delight. "You never lied! You said you were from the palace and you knew magic!"

"You were outside of the palace without a guard?" Ruby's dark eyes flash. "Sire!"

"I know!" Chuck says, hands up in surrender, a little less cautious with every word. "Sorry, I know! It was— It was Mike's fault! And Mike was with me, I had a guard! But it was his fault."

"What?" says Mike, and then grins guiltily as Ruby turns her laser-focus glare on him. "Hey, look, nobody else was gonna make sure he got fresh air!"

"...You caught a spell-fever, didn't you?" Thurman says. He's been looking Chuck over while they talk, squinting through his spelled lenses. "I don't, uh. I don't think I've seen you as low on magic as you were yesterday. Sire."

"It was a mighty battle!" says Ruby with relish. "One that will go down in legend, and an _epic_ drama it will make, indeed!"

"If people kiss at the end it ain't a drama," says Texas, like this should be obvious. "It's a romance. Duh."

"Hngh!" says Chuck.

"An epic _romantic_ drama," Ruby says, and then catches the wide-eyed, red-cheeked look on her king's face and clears her throat, subsiding a little. "I mean..."

"It was pretty epic," says Mike, and there's a whisper of old, familiar embarrassment and shame at the back of his mind, but he barely feels it. Newer, stronger instincts are welling up over top of it, shouting instead of whispering. His flight is the best, his display for them was the best, he's the best for them and he'll prove it and everybody will know. "You weren't even in here for the kiss. We should commission a painting or something."

" _Mike_ ," says Chuck, who looks deeply mortified by the very idea. "Sir, _no._ "

"And you guys, fighting the other dragons!" Mike says, not listening, "—I bet that was super cool!"

"It was pretty kick-ass," Texas acknowledges graciously. "Okay, but it turns out Lord Vanquisher ain't a dragon-killer, he's a dragon-smoocher, so are we callin' him that now?"

"I hate this," says Chuck to everybody and nobody, long-suffering. "You're all the worst."

"Lord Vanquisher, Dragon Wooer and Defender of His People," Julie suggests, and giggles as Chuck turns a look of betrayal in her direction.

"This is indecorous behavior in front of my royal guard," he points out, and Mike glances over and sees Ruby and Thurman watching with spell-bound interest. "You mock me."

"We tease you, your majesty," says Julie comfortably. "There's a difference."

"Sir Chilton," says Thurman, and Chuck slumps all over with relief as the attention turns away from him. "I was about to go looking for you, actually. I have a lot of questions about...um, well. Dragon stuff."

"Oh," says Mike.

The other burners move in weird almost-unison to stand just a step closer to him on all sides. Mike blinks around at all of them, looks back up at Thurman, and tries to decide what he's feeling.

"I, uh," he says.

"Actually..." Chuck glances back at him, uncertain apology in every inch of him. "I have some stuff I want to know too. But—! But if you don't want to talk—"

"I can," Mike says, a little defiantly. The implication—that he's weak, soft-scaled, that he doesn't have it in him—rankles. "Yeah! Totally, sure, whatever!"

"...Mm," says Chuck.

"I can _do_ it!" Mike insists. "Come on, let's go. Ask me anything."

"Actually I have a list," says Chuck, and glances around at the burners, Ruby and Thurman like he's trying to measure something in his head. "Can we...go up to my library?"

"We're comin' too," Dutch says, quiet but firm.

"Yeah," says Chuck wearily. "I kinda figured. Come on, everybody. Let's do this."

—

Chuck...isn't a fan, of the way Mike gets all tensed up and bristly and refuses to back down from things that make him uncomfortable. Hiding under a desk with claustrophobia? Bring it on. Mike Chilton can _handle it._

Then again, Chuck's not exactly the best at judging his own limits either. But—but he's not Mike, and he's the king. So.

"We need to know about the Duke," he says, as they all squeeze through the door to his private library. The room never looked big, but now there are seven people inside it looks like even more of a shoebox than normal. He can't see Mike's expression, which is good, because he already knew this was going to suck—he doesn't need to watch. "About how he got stones from all those dragons." He goes straight to his stack on the topic of animadividation magic—recently a lot taller and more well-defined than it has been. He's been...reading up, in the past couple of weeks. "You can move stuff off the couches, but make sure the stacks stay together."

"I thought he just enchanted them," Thurman says, and a lot of paper shifts, old springs creak. "Made them want to—"

"You can't," says Mike immediately. "It doesn't work like that. You can't." His voice sounds tight and unhappy still, but he keeps going, relentless. "It was his dragon. The red dragon, that lady who was with him."

" _What,_ " says Ruby.

"What red dragon?" says Thurman sharply. "You mean a ruby dragon, like Mad Dog—you mean _Mad Dog's dragon?"_

"Sire?" says Ruby. Chuck is frozen in place, not even breathing, abruptly terrified. Mike isn't answering, none of the burners are, because it's not on them, it's on him, he forgot to even keep it a secret—that it's all a lie, that it's all fake, that _he's—_

"Your king doesn't kill unless he has to," Julie says quietly. "You told us that when we got here."

The back of Chuck's neck feels really hot, but the rest of him feels really cold. "I," he manages, tiny and abrupt. "I thought— He told me I did, and I—did not recall, I could not—" paper is crumpling under his fingers, but he can't make his hands unclench. "I had no intention of lying—" He finally manages to turn, stumbling on his own feet, and sees them all look quickly away from him. The burners are crowded onto the biggest couch; Ruby is perched on a pile of books and Thurman is in a half-broken armchair.

Everybody's gonna be cool about the dragon thing, right?" says Texas, and glowers around at everybody. "Y'know he was all upset about it before, like, you guys were all _ooo, you killed a dragon, ooo_ and he was super torn up about it?"

" _Texas,_ " says Dutch sharply, and now Ruby and Thurman are definitely looking in Chuck's direction again. Chuck gives Texas a dirty look, and can't meet their eyes. They seem to be waiting for—what, for him to deny it? Deny he used to dream about killing her, hands covered in her blood again, both of them wearing Mad Dog's collar, a pair of broken toys in some insane, merciless game—

"Chuck?" says Julie.

The sound of his name breaks through the paralysis so sharply Chuck can almost feel something snap. "I was not proud of my actions," he blurts out, words coming too fast and shaken loose. "I was proud of what I, my kingdom, us, what we did, but, her death on my hands, it was not, not what I wanted. Not the king I wished to be."

There's an awful moment of silence after that. Chuck's eyes catch on Mike's; Mike is watching him with a strange, unreadable look on his face, inhuman eyes bright in the dark. The sharp tips of white fangs visible behind his lips. Chuck watches him, only him, not his knights, and waits for judgment.

"Well," says Ruby finally. "Good."

"Good?" says Thurman. he doesn't sound mad, just kind of poleaxed. "I mean, is it? I mean, it's not _bad,_ just— Wow."

"It's good," Ruby says firmly. "No combat among slaves for the entertainment of evil kings may be called a noble end!"

"Well—yeah, okay," Thurman says, and scratches the back of his neck, frowning. "...But the Duke did a lot of PR stuff about that, it's gonna be kinda a hard sell to turn around—"

"Oh, you'll make it work," Ruby says, and the icy knot in Chuck's chest is slowly uncoiling as they just—they keep on not yelling at him, or being disgusted or betrayed. It keeps on not happening, and it—it might _not_ happen, god, is it not going to happen? "He definitely fixed the dragon problem last time, and he totally fixed it this time! Besides, the dragon thing was just one thing, the stories people tell are all about the war, and the speeches and the glorious rise! _Hang_ the Duke."

"Yeah, well, If that's all settled," says Julie, with a brief glance at...whatever Chuck's face is doing, "—Mike, I need you to tell me what she did."

Mike was just starting to smile; the smile drops right off his face at that. "Oh," he says, "Yeah. Uh. Right. She, uh... She made the stones, out of the other dragons."

"She told you that?" Julie says, eyes narrowing. "If the Duke said it, we can't take it for granted it was true."

"No," says Mike, sharp for a second, and then that strange discomfort seeps back into him, bowing his shoulders, flattening his pointed ears. "I know, because she—she tried to make more. From me. While the Duke had me."

Chuck's stomach drops like a rock. "She _what?_ "

"She couldn't find anything else to pull out," Mike says, and his voice seems to get smaller and smaller as he talks. He's staring off into somewhere far away, eyes dark and jaw tight. "She had to stop because I... I passed out. He had her try a couple times. Nothing in there." His hand is on his chest again, fingers dragging at the fabric over his breastbone. "I think I know how she did it, I think I know...how to do it," he says quietly, and shudders all over, a ripple of soft, forest-green scales manifesting and melting away again as he settles. "It's _wrong,_ though. It's…" Another shudder, and Chuck can _see_ his pupils narrowing, exposing the fierce golden-green of his eyes. His cheeks are going ashy-pale.

"Pull out— Wait— Dragons can _force_ other dragons to make stones?" Chuck has to stand up, pacing. A whole series of theories and papers are re-ordering themselves in his head, research that didn't quite make sense, outlier cases with no explanations. "They— _how_? I've never heard—"

"How come all those asshole kings weren't makin' dragons do _that_ then?" Texas demands. Mike swallows convulsively, huddled in on himself with a kind of queasy misery. "Can all of you do that? What the hell?"

Mike makes a snarling, groaning little noise. "I think we could all do it if we _wanted,_ but it's—it's just— _wrong!_ Like, really wrong, and... _disgusting_ and just, sick." The hand on his chest clenches abruptly, nails lengthening and snagging at the fabric. "It's like—it's like—"

"Cannibalism?" Chuck suggests, and Mike blinks and then nods slowly.

"Yeah?" he says. "I dunno—yeah, kinda, except you're not eating somebody's meat, you're eating their...soul. It's not right, it's not—that should be somethin' you do because you want to, you can't take it from somebody, it's— _wrong._ "

"Well, nobody's gonna try to do that to you again," Dutch says. He's watching Mike's pale face with a kind of fierce intensity, his normally mild expression gone bright and sharp. Chuck wonders, not for the first time, if Dutch has a little bit of fey blood in him—the way the air and the color in it seem to react to his mood—no, focus. "You don't hafta worry about that. Okay?"

"We had it all worked out, though," Mike mumbles, and rubs his hands over his forearms, past the smooth scales and the scars. His voice is dropping, distant. "How are we gonna—the whole way we fight, I mean, I can't take—I can't just keep..." He grimaces. "I can make them again," he says, hopelessly hopeful, begging for approval he doesn't need—has _never_ needed to ask for. His eyes are looking straight through them to somewhere else, someone else. "I just need a—a while—"

The chorus of disapproval is deafening. Mike startles like he forgot they were there, staring around.

"Lord Vanquisher would never require that his knights rip apart their very being!" Ruby is saying hotly, and "If you make _one rock,_ Texas is gonna punch it right back in, okay?!" Texas is yelling over her. Chuck is finding it weirdly hard to talk around the thick, choking knot in his throat, but he shakes his head, jerky and desperate, and hopes the look on his face is enough.

"...If you ever make another one of those again," says Julie, very quietly, and her voice cuts through the noise, makes Mike sit up straighter like he's going to attention. "...I'm going to be _really_ disappointed in you."

Mike winces away from the words. "I won't!" he says urgently. "Sorry, no, I'm not gonna! I was just thinking— But I won't, seriously!"

"You said that before you made Chuck's," Julie says, relentless. Her eyes are fixed on Mike's, and he can't seem to look away. "I mean it, Mike. We don't want you to do that _ever_ again."

"I _swear,_ " Mike says, and even when Chuck's drained down to the barest dregs of his magic he can feel that resonate. He's never felt somebody take oaths like Mike does, god. "I won't, I swear. But—but you guys liked them, you liked having them, I could feel—"

"You like having 'em too," says Dutch. "And they're yours."

"You loved flying, though," says Mike, agonized, and Dutch sighs, smile wavering. "You _loved_ it, Dutch."

"Love you more," says Dutch, and Mike's face does something...just, unbearable to look at, startled and wondering. "Seriously, man, we don't want you to rip yourself up to make us happy. You promised you weren't gonna do that, and we're gonna hold you to it."

"Okay," says Mike, and chews his lip for a second, squeezing his eyes shut. When he breathes out, it seems to take some of the awful tension out of him. "...Okay."

He sits there quiet for a second, then glances up, shaking off whatever he was thinking about. "Uh," he says, almost timidly. "So, I'm not gonna—do that, I swear. But I do have something I kinda...wanna try? I just, I think I figured something else out, when she was..." he grimaces and gestures vaguely at his chest.

"Texas volunteers!" says Texas, before Chuck can even start to address that. "Hit me with it!"

"I'm not sure you should be doing experimental magic without training," Thurman volunteers—although he definitely looks at least as interested as Chuck feels.

"Oh, hush, sir Worrywart," Ruby says, and scoots in.

"I don't know if it's even gonna do anything," Mike says, and leans forward in his chair, frowning at Texas, focusing. "I just gotta _hhha_ —!"

His voice breaks into a sharp, cracked noise, and Texas jerks in place, eyes snapping wide. They both gasp out a breath, and there's fire flickering around Texas's lips, gleaming off of Mike's fangs. Then Mike jerks like he's breaking away from something, and the fire dies away again. Texas sits down really hard on the nearest stack of books, almost falls over and just barely catches himself, gaping at Mike.

" _Whoa_ now!" he says, and then, slowly, a look of absolute delight spreads across his face. "What'd you do?! Fuck!"

"Fuck indeed!" Ruby says, eyes gleaming. "Fuck _indeed,_ Sir Lone Star!"

"Hey," says Mike.

"Sometimes you gotta say it, tiny!" Texas huffs a couple more times, then frowns when no fire comes out. "Aw hey, where'd it go?"

"I dunno," says Mike, and presses a hand to his chest again. "In here somewhere?"

Chuck makes a thin little _hweee_ kind of noise and scrambles for his shelf of reference materials so fast he almost falls over. "This is—" there aren't words. " _Unprecedented,_ this is—Mike, holy shit! Fuck!"

"Fuck indeed, sire!" says Ruby, who is beaming like Christmas came early. "Fuck _indeed!"_

 _"Hey,_ " says Mike. "Okay—Chuck, what the heck—"

"Heck indeed, Sir Smiling Dragon," Ruby whispers, and Thurman snorts and breaks into a fit of half-muffled laughter. " _Heck indeed._ "

"Stoppit," says Mike, but he can't seem to stop himself from grinning, just a little bit. "Sire, what does this— _mean?_ "

"I don't know," says Chuck gleefully. This he can do, this is complicated and uncomplicated and _fun._ "Let's figure it out! Here, I'll take a look—"

And then he raises his hand to shape a spell-form in the air, makes it halfway through a line and—runs out of magic.

That's all there really is to it; he manages the first half of the first sigil he was going to draw, and then the brief burst of energy he was running on burns out like a snuffed candle. Chuck sways, gasping, tries again and then growls as his body refuses to do what he wants.

"Sire?"

"I am, I'm—well—" He can't, he can't look this weak in front of them. After he just opened up to them like that, he can't let them see that weak, awful part of him, _not like this._ Chuck reaches, straining, struggling for the bare sparks of magic he's started to recover, and feels his stomach lurch queasily as the room suddenly spins around him. "I can...still..."

" _Sire,_ " says Thurman urgently, and Mike reaches out and grabs Chuck's shoulder, squeezing a little. Chuck gasps, blinks and then blinks again, harder, trying to shake off the tinny ringing in his ears and the sick twisting of his stomach. It feels like he swallowed a nest of live snakes, knotting and writhing in his gut, and his vision is grey and fuzzy.

Slowly, the sickness fades. Chuck becomes aware he's gasping, hyperventilating—he forces himself to slow down, focusing on sensation. The cold sweat stinging his eyes. The warm hand on his shoulder. The knee bumping his, the other burners all gathered in close around him.

"I can still do it," he manages finally, hearing his own voice tiny and hoarse and pathetic. "I can. I'm strong enough. I can."

Mike makes a low, unhappy chirring noise, sympathetic and worried, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. " _Sire_ ," he says, simple and sad.

"We...we know you to be strong, sire," says Ruby, almost tentatively. "This does not disprove that. The mightiest can be laid low."

They keep _saying_ that, but they're not the king. Chuck groans and scrubs at his eyes, blinking hard. His hands feel clammy and cold, even to himself. He doesn't want—but it's not like he has a choice. He doesn't have the magic. If he tries again, it feels like it might drop him.

"Alright," he says. "Fine. Sir Ericsson, have you magic enough?"

"For divination?" Thurman grins. "I've always been pretty good at divination."

So has Chuck, he just doesn't have—whatever. It's _fine,_ that's not what Thurman meant. "Good," he says. "Okay. Good. Then—let's do this." Thurman holds out his hands, palms up, without being asked. Chuck gropes around on his desk, finds a delicate brush and a pot of ink and starts to form the pattern he wants, focusing intently on the shape of it. It's weird, doing this for somebody else. It's been a long, long time.

The pattern, when it's done, covers both of Thurman's hands and goes part of the way up his arms. Thurman holds dutifully still for the whole affair, with the patient stillness of a trained mage, barely twitching when Chuck has to paint on his palms or fingertips. When Chuck finally pulls the brush away, Thurman waits for a nod and then turns his hands over very cautiously, examining the pattern with obvious fascination.

"You inverted the watcher clause," he mumbles, glasses gleaming, and glances up at Chuck to grin like there's something genuinely amazing about Chuck's weird cobbled-together spellforms. "Does that open the pattern for more mages, or just make the results more visible? Wait, don't tell me, I wanna see. It's gotta use up more power, right? But you've got crazy amounts of raw power, so—" and before Chuck can react to that, "—Does Sir Chilton need a receiver pattern, or...?"

"Oh—uh, no." Chuck reaches around and points out the long, curving pieces down the backs of Thurman's fingers. "It's directional, just...stand pretty close to him, make sure your palms are near his chest, we'll be fine."

"It's _directional,"_ Thurman repeats, and then shakes his head, apparently leaving that thought for now. "Okay! Oh man, I can't wait to see this."

Thurman's power fills up Chuck's spellforms differently than his own power would. Chuck just floods them, accepting the loss of the excess power as a necessary evil; he's fully aware that he casts like an untrained warmage, but it's always worked pretty well for his purposes and he's never had the training to do better. But Ruby and Thurman were both from one of the kingdoms outside the borders of Mad Dog's kingdom, captured in one of his many, many raids—Thurman's a couple of years older than Chuck, old enough he got the beginning of magical training before getting press-ganged. His magic finds the center of the pattern, fills it precisely, spirals out from the middle in order of symbol authority, textbook and precise like his bookkeeping.

Mike tenses when Thurman reaches out toward his chest, lip curling briefly back to bare his fangs; Thurman falters, but a second later Mike's eyes flicker up to Chuck's face and he visibly forces himself to relax. His grip on the arms of his chair is white-knuckled, but he doesn't move as the magic reaches out, searching him, taking hold of the bonds wound into his magic and tugging them gently. Binding particles of light into them from the air, gathering the glow away from the sunlit window. The room gets dimmer, and the stolen light forms glittering cords in the air, spreading out from Mike's chest.

Texas karate chops through one with a soft, uneasy _ka-chaw_ , but the bond doesn't even shimmer, just hangs in the air, intangible. Mike stares at them, the insubstantial glitter and shine, and Chuck can see his pupils dilate. " _Whoa,_ " he says softly, and plays his fingers through the condensed sunlight.

"Now, can you do that again?" Chuck says—quietly, not breaking Thurman's concentration.

"Mm?" says Mike distantly, and then shakes his head and blinks. "Uh—yeah. Lemme just..."

Everybody is watching Texas, Chuck included, which is why he's not expecting it when all of a sudden something bright and hot bursts into life behind his ribs. Through watering eyes, he can see the rope of light between him and Mike light up like a fourth of July firework, drawing in a burst of light from the room so quickly it's blinding to look at. Chuck yelps, and the noise comes out as a rush of white-hot flames.

And then the light dies back out again, the heat snuffs out, and the spell breaks. Chuck presses a hand to his chest and kind of...staggers to the shelves to lean on them, wheezing.

"Sorry!" says Mike.

"That was _fire_ ," says Dutch. "You didn't give him fire!"

"I did this time," says Mike. He looks about as startled as the others do. "It's the easiest one, I think?"

"Is it because we had the rocks?" Texas touches his chest carefully, the place where the rope made of light went into him.

"But I had one," Ruby says. "And I never carried a stone. Sir Chilton—"

"Got it," says Mike, and turns his strange new unblinking stare in her direction. It takes longer this time, and a muscle works in Mike's jaw, but then Ruby gasps and rubs her eyes and when she opens them again they're bright, vivid yellow-green.

"Oh my _god,_ " Chuck says, high-pitched with delight. "Oh my god, _Mike._ "

"What?" Mike turns back, concentration broken, and Ruby's eyes fade to black again. "Have you seen this, do you know what it is, or—?"

"I have no idea!" Chuck says gleefully, and goes sprinting across the room to dig through a stack of books, shoving papers out of his way. "I've never heard of this, I've never even _heard_ of somebody hearing of this! This is _new!_ "

"Uh...good?" says Mike blankly.

"It's _really good_!" Chuck reassures him, and Mike's blank, startled look warms a little bit. "People study stuff we already know about all the time, but do you know how often we get to discover and research whole new forms of magic? I have so many spells I want to try! Dude, this is huge!"

"Finally, something new to study," says Julie. "You're freed from the burden of draconic reproduction research."

"Yeah!" says Chuck, and then processes what she said and chokes on his own spit. "I mean—I, I'm not—shut up!"

"Mm," says Julie, and leans forward a little, glancing around him. Chuck follows her gaze, and feels a hot, stupid flush rise in his cheeks. His digging has unearthed the top of a stack of books he definitely wasn't intended to uncover—the ones he put in here to hide from the Duke, with pictures on the covers of beautiful men and women with more scales than clothes. He shoves those books deeper into the pile, drops a stack of thick volumes on magical taxonomy on top of them, and glares at her. Julie smirks at him, as smug as the smuggest cat, and turns slowly back to the group at large.

"Dragon what now?" says Texas.

"Hey, Ruby?" says Thurman, and stands up really fast. "We gotta go do that thing. For the guard."

"The what?' says Ruby, and then yelps as Thurman starts hiking determinedly toward the door, hauling her along by one arm. "Ugh, _Thurman!_ What?!"

"Super nice to talk to you guys!" Thurman calls over his shoulder. "Thank you for talking about magic with me, sire, I will see you anon, goodbye!" and then he's gone.

the rest of the burners all turn, in slightly weird unison, to stare at Chuck. Chuck, standing there in the middle of a stack of research volumes, tries to shuffle inconspicuously over to one side, hiding the spines of the books behind him from view.

" _Romance novels,_ " says Julie, as soon as the door is closed.

Chuck gives her the dirtiest look possible. "They're primary sources."

"What?" says Mike.

"I've gotta see this," says Dutch, delighted. "You got educational pamphlets? Y'know, for Texas? He still thinks Mike's got four of everything and lays eggs."

Mike opens his mouth, shuts it again, and drops his face into his hands. "Guys, come on," he says through his fingers. "Leave him alone."

"That was a joke," says Texas, "Texas was joking, okay, whatever. Dragons don't lay eggs, got it."

"I mean," says Chuck, because he hates himself. "Dragon genealogy and morphology are _really_ fluid, so some of them actually...uh..."

"What, seriously?" says Mike, and for a second Chuck winces, sure he's gotten something wrong, but Mike isn't rolling his eyes. He just looks startled. Like he...oh. No, because he doesn't know. He seriously, literally doesn't _know_. Chuck knows more about his entire species and culture than he does.

Quietly, in his head, Chuck adds another tick to the long list of reasons Kane needs to get thrown out a window. "Yeah," he says, instead of any of the things he's thinking. "Dragons aren't...you're very, you're _really_ highly magical creatures, Mike. Uh...enough magic, just, _in_ a species, it can make genetics and stuff kind of...complicated." And...he doesn't know if Mike will even know, but... "Did...did _you_...hatch from an egg?"

"What?" says Mike. "No! I mean—no? I don't think—no."

"Okay," Chuck says, and drops the books he was carrying on a wobbly end table, hurrying over to a separate stack of materials. "...And your—your mom, she was green, like you? Horns, and everything?"

"Yeah," says Mike, with much more certainty this time. "Yeah."

There are quite a few subclasses of dragon with green scales, but not nearly as many with ramming horns like the ones Mike had when he transformed. But Jade dragons are rare, reclusive, and most importantly there's no record of them being able to gift their powers to other species at will. The inherent magic they're known for is melding and merging things, creating solid wooden walls out of living, growing trees or setting up in rocky canyons and sealing the entrances after them. It doesn't make any sense that Mike would get an entirely unrelated power, unless it's a total genetic mutation—or, _shit,_ magic is complicated sometimes and sometimes it's incredibly, bizarrely intuitive. Mike had that gleaming, opalescent scale of his chest and stomach—a mixture of colors, huh, a mom who's magical genome was to mix and synthesize things...

Chuck turns back from his books to impart all of this information, and sees Mike sitting very still, staring off into the distance with a familiar blank look in his eyes. He mentally rewinds, catches on the question about Mike's mom and resists the urge to groan out loud. _Stupid._ Got caught up in stuff nobody else knows or cares about and put his foot in his mouth, like he always does. _Idiot._

"Mike?" he says carefully, and comes around the couch to pat Mike's shoulder gently. Julie makes a meaningful, grimacing kind of expression that Chuck is pretty sure means _carefully, dumbass_. He nods and squeezes Mike's shoulder. " _Mike._ "

Mike blinks, still distant, makes a soft noise and...okay, well, if Chuck's trying to bring him back _gently_...

Mike makes another startled little sound when Chuck kisses him, warm and shy and fast. Chuck starts to pull back again—he's been trying not to push, everybody is still being so careful with each other, it's all so new—but this time, Mike shivers awake and leans after him, cupping a hand on the back of Chuck's neck and pulling him with effortless strength. Chuck squeaks in a very un-kingly way and stumbles forward, and Mike gathers him easily up into his lap, almost lifting him off the ground, never letting him go quite far enough to catch a breath. Texas whistles, and Julie makes an... _interested_ noise, a bright little hum. Dutch doesn't make a sound, but a second later the couch cushions shift and Chuck can feel him watching avidly, not quite touching but not looking away.

Julie isn't interested in sitting back and watching. She crowds in on the over-full couch, pressing up against Chuck's back and side, and then reaches out and twines her fingers through Mike's hair. Mike breaks off to gasp, makes an amazingly inhuman rattling, purring noise and leans back into her touch.

"I still," Chuck blurts out, and then bites his lip, flushing, as he feels all of them focus on him again. "Never mind, it's dumb. I'm being— It's stupid, just, forget it."

"Quit sayin' stuff like that," Texas says sharply.

Chuck winces, jaw tensing as anxiety starts to pluck at his nerves again, but Dutch is already saying "Texas, come on." and then "What he's _tryin'_ to say is we don't think you're stupid, we think you're a cool guy with a lotta cool stuff to say, and we don't like hearin' you beat up on yourself. What were you gonna say?"

Chuck has to stop and breathe for a second on that, because wow, how did he _possibly_ get this lucky. He actually feels kind of sick to his stomach over it, although it's hard to tell if that's because of the magical strain from a few minutes ago, the spellfever or the anxiety. "It's just," he says, thinking carefully, trying to summarize—because even if Dutch says that, it doesn't mean Chuck is going to let himself get out of control and start lecturing and waving his hands around like a dumbass. "I've been studying—stuff like this. Like—" god, he's fought in a _war,_ this is not this hard to say. "—like us. For years. And now I'm..."

"Part of the research?" Julie suggests. And then, before Chuck can nod gratefully, "...Part of the year's next best-selling _primary source material?_ "

"A what now?" Texas demands, and aggressively gives up on sulking to reach out and grab Chuck's butt. Chuck makes a humiliating squeaking noise and jerks forward in shock. Not only does he fail to shake Texas's hand off his butt, but pushing forward leaves him suddenly chest to chest with Mike. Mike's eyes fix on his face, and his pupils dilate again—wide, deep pools like a cat who just saw a toy to play with.

"Y'know," Dutch says, with an undertone of badly-disguised glee. "...We're one of Chuck's romance novels now."

"They're for _research!_ " Chuck insists, but he knows his face is bright red and he can't meet Mike's eyes. "There's a lot of misinformation in them, but a lot of them are written by dragon authors from other parts of the country where they don't have to worry about assholes with collaring spells, and the way they write about—" and then he has to stop, because Texas squeezes his butt again at exactly the moment Mike leans forward and kisses him.

"Oh, _shit,_ " says Texas. "Yeah we totally are! Texas would read that." He pauses thoughtfully. "...Texas would write that."

"Texas," says Julie intensely, over Chuck's other shoulder, while Chuck tries to decide between complaining, kissing Mike, and sinking through a hole in the floor to go directly to hell. "If you write that book, I'll find a way of making photographs again, just so I can give you a framed photo of my boobs."

Texas makes a hilarious little "hgnk?!" noise and then pumps a fist in the air and whoops. Julie is vaguely visible in the corner of Chuck's eye, looking slightly embarrassed but also more smug than anybody has the right to be, and Chuck is abruptly distracted by the entire general concept of Julie and not having a shirt and _Julie_ and having boobs. By the way Mike's hands just stuttered and he just lost the rhythm of the kiss completely, his brain just went to the same place and he's just as distracted by it.

"Texas is _so_ gonna write it," Texas gloats. "You're gonna help, skinny!"

"Hwhuh," says Chuck, who was only just managing to move on from Julie having boobs that he might get to see, and starting to get into the concept of a romance novel, about _them,_ written by _Texas_. "Wh—me?! No!"

"Whaddya mean, 'no'?" Texas snorts. "You're the premium expert on dragon lore and biographies, or whatever. Texas ain't into that junk, he's into _Mike's_ junk."

Dutch collapses forward against Texas's shoulder and breaks down laughing. Chuck is about to keep on arguing, except then Julie presses up against him again, small and strong and, and hard with muscle in some places and _not—_ and _soft—_ in others, and leans up to whisper "... _dost thou require incentive also, Lord Vanquisher?_ " with an amazingly adorable, half-hidden giggle in her voice, and Chuck is pretty sure he might be having an aneurysm of some kind. That's formal-intimate, because—because he's dating Julie, and she's a princess, and she uses formal-intimate because she's a _princess_ , because she's the daughter of the _king of Deluxe,_ and Chuck might get to see her without a shirt on.

"I _hhh_ ," Chuck says, and chokes off into an undignified noise as Mike's hands creep to his hips and hold him where he is, pressed up against Mike's broad chest with Mike's breath on his neck. Chuck knows he's feverish right now, can feel the ache in his joints and the oversensitive, uncomfortable prickle of the fever in his skin, but Mike still feels warm pressed up against him. "I would not—refuse such an offer for, for the riches of an entire kingdom, princess."

"Hee," says Julie, and Mike makes a noise that's completely not human, a pleased thrum in his chest. "So you're researching from the inside now—what have you _deduced_ about us, your majesty?"

"Uh..." says Chuck. Dutch is leaning around Texas's shoulders to put a hand on the back of Mike's neck and scratch his scalp, and the look of heavy-lidded enjoyment on Mike's face is unfairly distracting. Chuck swallows hard and tries to focus. "Uh, the smaller the flight is and the more humans are in it, the less easy it is to, to predict—" Julie's hand is resting on his lower back, not going anywhere, just kind of sitting and occupying about 80% of his brain power. "There's usually one dragon who attracts another two, or three, a focal point. Or, I read about twice, a bunch of dragons liked one human, but—"

"Dragon daddy," Texas says.

Chuck makes a wordless noise of protest and shoves a hand over Texas's mouth. Texas scowls at him and licks the palm of his hand vengefully. "—All I'm sayin'," he starts, as Chuck swears and pulls his hand away.

"Don't!" Dutch says, but he can't keep the word from cracking into a laugh. " _Don't_ say it! Don't— _ha,_ don't ever say those words again, oh my god—"

"And that's Mike," Texas says, and swats all their hands off, pushing himself up. "Here, lemme—"

Chuck tries to turn and see where he's going—did he mess up, did he make Texas mad—? Except then he looks back and Mike is smiling at him, warm and kind of crooked, thumbs rubbing slowly back and forth on Chuck's hip bones. By the time Chuck can look away from that smile, Texas is thumping back down on the couch and shoving a familiar book under his nose. "So he's this guy."

The cover of the book is a gorgeous sapphire dragon, curled up on a pile of gold with her lovers draped over her forelegs in attitudes of pleading and sorrow, wearing the artist's best guess at pre-fall 1800 AD dresses. _The Alexandra Trilogy, Book 3: Tears To Fill An Ocean_ , proclaims the cover, in florid font. Chuck spends about three seconds staring, trying really hard not to figure out which of the burners is Marian, the soldier-woman who Alexandra found injured and nursed back to health, and which one is Ari, the cold noblewoman hiding a passionate heart under her stern exterior. It takes him a second or two too long before he shakes the thought away and scowls at Texas instead, pretending his face isn't going red.

"That's not a guy," he says, with as much dignity as he can muster, and shoves at the hand Texas is holding in his face. Texas's arm is cool and solid to his feverish touch, and it barely moves when he pushes. It's unfairly hot, and distracting, like everything else about this situation. "But yeah, she's the center of her flight, the flight territory would center on her land and she'd take care of the hoard—that cover is, is stupid though—nobody has a huge pile of gold like that— _Mmh._ "

"And that's Mike," says Texas, and baps Mike in the face with the book. Mike jerks back and huffs a sharp, rippling-hot breath, affronted and wide-eyed like a startled cat, and Chuck scrambles to snatch the book out of Texas's hands before Texas can swat Mike again and get one of the oldest books in Chuck's collection set on fire. "I know _you_ never had no big pile of gold, tiny."

He obviously means it as a joke, and Mike sort of half-laughs, but he also twitches a little, barely noticeable except for the way Chuck's weight is resting on his thighs. Chuck remembers, abruptly, how Mike had lit up with eager excitement at the prospect of finally having something— _anything_ , to give his flight. "It's normal not to have much of a hoard at all, especially for like, the first twenty or thirty years," he says hastily, and Mike's tense, unhappy look eases some. "Especially for a mobility-based flight, one that doesn't have a set territory to live in. You guys are a textbook travelling flight."

"I think you mean 'were'," says Dutch quietly, and there's a hint of uncertainty, just a hint, under the words. Chuck opens his mouth and then closes it again, startled all over again at the knowledge that—holy shit this could be a thing, like, a real _thing,_ they're going to stay. His castle, his _city_ , they're Mike's territory now. Holy shit.

"Yeah," he says, and grins at Dutch, brushing the loose hair back out of his face on one side to make brief eye-contact. "You _were_. Now, I mean...there's a lot of good stuff to hoard in Raymanthia. And—and we've got a lot of territory to protect, so..." Talking about "their" territory feels incredibly presumptuous, but it also makes Mike's face brighten and his pupils wide, an irrepressible grin spreading over his face. So, worth it. "—But you're also knights, so you're all kind of protectors— _mm_." Mike's hands just tightened on Chuck's hips, pulling insistently; when Chuck lets himself be pulled, Mike presses them together again and nuzzles his face into Chuck's neck to kiss the side of his throat. Chuck hears his voice rocket up about an octave, but can't seem to care. He holds onto Mike's arms for dear life, feels warm muscle and smooth scale shifting under his fingers. "—You do, just, you do a really good job—protecting the, the, our territory, keeping us all safe, hh..."

"He's not the one with the hoard, though," Julie laughs, and the hand on Chuck's back creeps upward, just an inch or two, almost uncomfortable against the feverish ache in his skin but—not quite, not bad, really _really_ good. "And this isn't his territory, either." She picks the book up from where it fell, and examines the cover thoughtfully, smiling. "...Actually, sire, I think this might be you."

"What," says Chuck, because that's enough to cut through even the sight of Dutch wrapping a long arm around Texas's waist, even the feeling of Mike's hot, white, perfect fangs scraping gently past his jaw.

"I think we're _your_ flight," says Julie, and Mike groans softly against Chuck's throat and nods sharp and small and jerky, mumbling something indistinct into his skin. Chuck gives a kind of shaky, delighted giggle and pulls Mike up to kiss him on the lips again, hard enough he almost cuts his lip on one of Mike's teeth.

"Hey, Texas protects everybody too," Texas is muttering, somewhere to one side. Mike breaks away from the kiss for a second to laugh and leans over, pulling Texas in for a kiss too. By the time he's done, Texas looks a lot less sulky. "I'm just _sayin'_ ," he says anyway, stubborn, "Who's watchin' _Mike's_ back, huh?"

"You guys are!" Mike says, and bumps their heads together, an affectionate _thud_ of his horns against Texas's forehead. "There can be more than one, dude, we'll keep 'em safe. We'll all keep each other safe."

"That sounds nice," says Julie, soft and just a little distant. Chuck glances up at the tone of her voice and catches a detached, preoccupied look in her eyes. It's still a little bit scary, but he twists in Mike's lap and reaches out for her. Julie blinks, then softens and lets him pull her closer, lets him kiss her as gently as he knows how. By the time he runs out of breath and has to sit back again, Julie is smiling.

"Not bad, for a beginner," she says, and wraps an arm around Mike's waist, leaning into him so he shivers and sighs into Texas's lips. "Here, try this out."

Kissing Julie feels a little bit like taking a test he didn't know he needed to study for, and Dutch doesn't make it _any_ easier by making a considering little humming noise and then crowding forward over top of Texas to trace a thoughtful finger down the line of Chuck's spine. Chuck jerks, startled, but Dutch doesn't do anything else, just traces the lines of him with one long-fingered hand, observing him.

Between the two of them, it takes an embarrassingly short amount of time before Chuck is gasping and shivering into Julie's lips, one hand bruising-tight on Dutch's knee. His head is throbbing, his heart is fluttering breathlessly in his chest and he's feeling kind of really light-headed but also _amazing._ Dutch has one long leg thrown over Texas's lap, Julie is tucked under Mike's arm, Texas up against his other side—there are people all around Chuck and seeing him happy and seeing him _not be king_ and they like him anyway. He's okay and they like him and he's _okay_.

"Awww," says Texas, and Chuck blinks out of his thoughts to see Texas has taken over rubbing the back of Mike's neck, working blunt fingers hard into the muscle there. Mike's head is leaned back into the touch and his grin is wide and bright and full of an uninhibited happiness that looks incredibly pretty on him. He's also making a noise, like a growl, but steadier and softer, rising and falling as his chest does. "You never _purred_ before, dude! Sick!"

"Whuh?" says Mike, voice buzzing and warped, and blinks open eyes that are more black than green. "Mm."

"Wow," Julie says, giggling again, and shoves at Mike's shoulder. "Oh _no_ , a _dragon._ Here to purr and cuddle all the kingdom's totally sexy knights into submission!"

"Good thing you've got him outnumbered four to one," Mike says, half-laughing, and all of a sudden he tenses and _changes,_ horns pushing through his hair, pupils shrinking and teeth lengthening. Chuck jumps, amazed but thoroughly startled; Julie catches her breath. Mike's eyes flicker to them, and for a second he looks kind of...regretful? Ashamed.

Then Dutch goes " _...Man,_ " winded like somebody just punched him in the gut. Texas is chortling, eyes wide, face flushed and grin going all sharp at the edges. Dutch edges closer, still staring at the scales on Mike's cheeks and neck, the heavy curve of his horns. "...Nice," he says, kind of strangled. " _Dang_."

"What," says Mike, and slips back into a more human shape, staring. "I—wait. Wait. What do you mean, 'nice'?"

"That's somethin' else," says Dutch, and licks his lips, swallows like his mouth is dry. It's an unfairly good look on him, fascinated and vivid, tattoos twining across his skin excitedly, and Chuck is briefly distracted from Mike by the look in those dark eyes. "It's a...good look."

"Y'know how it's hot when somethin' looks like it could totally kill you if you don't kick its ass first?" Texas says.

"What?" Chuck says, distracted from his distraction. "No. What?"

"Y'know how that's hot if you're _not_ lame?"

" _What?_ " says Mike.

"I...might kinda be diggin' the scaly look," Dutch admits, and grins a little sheepishly. "I mean, you're pretty dang easy on the eyes anyway, but... _damn,_ Mike _._ "

The concept of somebody finding danger _itself_ a turn-on is…startling. But at the same time Chuck does kind of get what he means, now that he's thinking about it. And if there was anybody who'd be into feeling like he could die any second, it somehow doesn't surprise Chuck that it's Texas.

"Dutch just digs people who ain't human," Texas chortles, and laughs louder when Dutch elbows him. "I saw your sketchbook, _ha,_ you'd—"

"I'm gonna turn you purple if you don't _shut up!_ " Dutch says, and Texas makes an affronted noise and Mike is sitting up abruptly, interposing himself between them with his hands out, holding them apart. He's making a weird noise in his chest, too, a kind of rumbling rattle that sounds almost like his purr but not quite; half of Chuck is distracted by his bare chest and arms but the other half of him is already writing a paper in his head. Mike feels responsible for keeping the peace in his flight—he's the leader by default, and he doesn't seem to enjoy it much, and—who exactly is the king here, anyway?

"Quit it, guys," says Chuck, with as much authority as he can muster, and Dutch and Texas look at him instead of Mike, distracted. Mike blinks at him owlishly, then slowly settles back, pupils widening from anxious slits to wide, watchful ovals. "We're all into different stuff, and—and that's all fine. No ragging on people for what they like."

That seems to kind of work. Texas looks kind of stymied, at least, and Dutch sits back and huffs.

"Good rule," says Julie briskly. "Now, can we get back to what we were doing? I haven't even told Mike how nice his arms are yet, we have a lot of ground to cover."

"I, oh," says Mike, looking frankly alarmed as all eyes turn back to him. His horns start to slowly recede as they all look at him, his eyes go darker and his scales fade, self-consciousness visibly creeping over him. "I'm—fine."

"Hell yeah you are!" says Texas. "Stop—hey, quit, you don't hafta go all soft again. We like you pointy too."

"What?" says Mike, and reaches up, touching his forehead. His fingertips trace the root of one horn. "Oh, uh...o-okay, I mean..."

He takes a deep breath, drops his head back and lets it out slow and smooth and long, and everything inhuman about him comes rushing back in force. When he opens his eyes again they're bright, fierce green, and the scales trail visibly down his cheeks and the sides of his neck. His horns make a full turn, thick and heavy and rich mahogany-brown.

"Whoa," says Dutch breathlessly, and reaches out to touch the scales on Mike's face, trace his hands up and around the curve of Mike's horns. Licks his lips. " _Wow._ Mike—wow."

"Yeah?" Mike smiles, a little bit cautious, kind of shy; a mouthful of perfect, pearly-white fangs.

"Yeah," Dutch echoes, and rubs into the roots of his hair, feeling around the bases of the horns. Squeezes a little harder. "Can you feel...?"

"Nah," says Mike. "I mean, kinda. Down—right there. A little bit." His eyes are fixed on Dutch's face, an anxious kind of hunger in his stare. Like he can't quite believe the wondering look on Dutch's face, like he wants more. "I know they're, uh, they're weird."

"What?" Dutch huffs, half-laughing. "Oh my god, man, no. They're _great._ You look—really, really cool."

"I heard that's like a sex thing," Texas contributes, and Mike sputters and reddens but doesn't quite pull away from Dutch's hands.

"Horns are mostly more for, uh, y'know, fighting and...and claiming territory," Chuck mumbles, because _god,_ nobody else is going to say it. "That's a myth, they're not, uh. They don't feel, um. Not from what I've read."

"Nah," Mike agrees, apparently picking up on the unspoken question in Chuck's slightly panicky glance his way. "Doesn't feel like that." he leans his head into Dutch's hand. "...Feels good, though."

"They're very handsome," Chuck says, keenly aware that he's genuinely babbling at this point. "By standard, uh, by dragon standards, I mean, from what I've _read—_ "

"What," Mike says, mock-hurt over the faintest twinge of too-real hurt. "You don't think I'm handsome anymore, your majesty?"

"No, I—I do!" Chuck says, and Mike hesitates, briefly startled, then blinks slowly and smiles at him. "Seriously, you're, _wow."_

Mike hums in his chest and turns his face a little, away from Chuck's gaze like he's suddenly embarrassed. All he manages to do is meet Texas's eyes instead. They're very focused, fixed on his face with almost frightening intensity.

"Are we _finally_ gonna bang?" says Texas, very seriously. "Is that what's goin' on here?"

" _Tex_ ," Mike says, apparently mortified even with the Burners halfway up into his lap and one of Dutch's hands still hanging onto a horn.

"What, all five of us?" Julie giggles, sudden and surprisingly sweet. " _How_?"

"We could make some kind of chart?" Chuck says, and then blinks as the other Burners all burst out laughing. "—What?!"

"Definitely!" Dutch gasps, and throws an arm around him, shaking him a little back and forth. "Totally, man, make that chart, I _gotta_ see this."

"Wh—there are just— there's a lot of combinations, and— Shut _up_!"

"It's a great idea, buddy," says Mike, still laughing, and hooks an arm around Chuck's waist to pull him over, kissing him soft and brief and startling. "Gotta make sure everybody gets a turn, right? That's super kingly of you."

"I, ha, mmh," says Chuck. God, is it a magic thing, the way getting casually _liked_ by somebody makes his brain shut down? It's freaking inconvenient, is what it is. Makes his brain feel all fuzzy and his face feel hot and his muscles feel twitchy and weak and— "…Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Mike. His arms are really warm and solid, which is good because Chuck is leaning on him pretty hard, trying to focus on—whatever he was thinking about, it was important. "Hey, you okay?"

"Mmm," says Chuck distantly, and chokes on a tight, unhappy noise as a wave of dizzy, sick shivers wracks his body. "I—am—" he gets out. "I am. Well."

"You should lie down," Julie says firmly, and just like that everybody is pulling back and away and _apart,_ and Chuck ruined it. He makes a noise that sort of sounds like words, trying to grab the others as they move away—gets a handful of Mike's sleeve and the neck of Texas's shirt, holding on desperately. The wave of fever is already fading back from that awful point of intensity, and it feels so dumb to stop everything just because he felt bad for a second. Chuck's felt _way_ worse before, he could march through it, he could _fight_ through it, he can totally make out through it, just…once the room stops spinning, in a second.

"Easy," says Texas quellingly, and Chuck becomes aware that he's saying some of that out loud, although it's mostly half-coherent fragments of protests. "Look, your majesty, you wanna get all up in our burner business, we get that, we're hot like fire. Especially Texas. But if you try to handle Austin when you're all noodly like this, Texas might _blow you away_ with his Texosity."

"Austin?" says Chuck weakly, and then catches the meaningful look Texas shoots down his body. "Oh. _Oh_."

"Yeah, anyway, so," Texas says, moving along. "We'll do our thing, and you can chill and watch—"

"No," says Julie.

"You can just…do hand stuff—"

"Try again," says Dutch.

"Ugh, _fine,_ you can just lie there and Texas'll show you some of his cool rodeo moves!"

"Tex!" says Mike.

"He's already lyin' down though," Texas protests, and gives Chuck a look like he's something special and desirable, like a rare weapon Texas is itching to get his hands on and try out. Chuck flushes under the force of that look, startled by its intensity, and Texas's dark eyes narrow on his face. "He wouldn't hafta do any work, Texas would do all the—"

"Burning calories when you've already got a spell-fever is the _opposite_ of helpful," Julie says sternly.

"Yeah, but." Chuck says, and startles at the sound of his won voice. "I, but, I, uh. Wouldn't, um. Hm. Haha?"

"See, he wants to!" Texas says. Chuck squeezes his eyes shut, face burning, and nods kind of jerkily. Somewhere behind the couch, Dutch laugh—not meanly, just kind of fond and exasperated. "Hey, you should order 'em to let us, that'd show 'em."

"No," says Mike, before Chuck can even entertain that idea. "We're gonna wait, and then we're gonna figure this out, all of us. All of us together. Okay?"

 _Tightly-bonded flights of dragons tend to think of their flight as a unit and a whole_ , Chuck's hindbrain thoughtfully volunteers. A Dr. Favreau paper, probably. Very poetic sociological work. _While episodes of intimacy may frequently occur between individual members of the flight, it is with the understanding that they are microcosms of a whole. In some cases a flight of dragons who loses one of their mates will go for multiple years without intimacy; the anxiety and emotional dysphoria brought on by the absence of a mate from the flight cannot be overstated._

Chuck had read that a few months after he officially took the throne, and imagining the flight of Mad Dog's dragon—the effect he might have had on some grieving, distant flight he'd never know about—had sent him into a week-long spiral. Now, though, Chuck has…other points of reference.

"'S a dragon thing," he explains to the room at large. Which sums it up pretty well, he thinks. "Okay—it's, yeah, yes. We will proceed no further, s— _hha,_ sir." Another shudder, another wave of chills. "I'll recover fast, I know how, I can do it, sorry—"

"We can wait as long as we gotta, man," Dutch says, and he reaches out and touches Chuck with just his fingertips again, traces his cheek and then the line of his jaw, the tendons in his throat. "It's fine."

"But—"

"It's fine," Mike repeats, and settles him back down onto the couch cushions. "There's gonna be time later, dude. There's gonna be plenty of time."

—

The palace doctor and the other Burners don't okay Chuck to get up and start being king again for a solid three days. Chuck is frustrated, touchy and tense with annoyance and leftover painful feelings he doesn't seem to want to share with Mike. Mike doesn't push. He doesn't make any complaining noises when they say "three days" either, even though the concept of waiting even a couple of hours makes Mike want to jitter out of his skin.

He goes flying instead of thinking about it, stretching his new, old wings, getting used to them again. The first day he just circles the towers; the second day he takes Dutch with him, and they practice Mike giving Dutch his wings back, keeping them there, not letting him fall. It gets easier every time.

The way they fly together stirs up more of those weird, familiar, unfamiliar things in Mike's chest, and by the time they land he's almost insensible with it—has to grab Dutch and kiss his face and his hands and the back of his neck between his wings. It's only the reminder that they _can't_ —they can't, they have to wait, it's not the right time yet—that stops him from doing some really dumb stuff that he probably shouldn't try to do on the top of a roof.

He doesn't take Dutch with him on the third night, though, because god, he's only got so much self-control and it's already pretty much at the limit.  He spends his time pushing hard and fast and far, testing how far he can extend his wingspan before his body starts to feel stretched and wrong, aching.  

By the time he turns back and heads toward the castle, it's getting on toward evening and the sunlight is gleaming off the tower windows. Mike slows to lazy swooping as he gets closer, and his eye catches, suddenly, on the only irregularity in the gleaming wall of windows; high on the middle tower, a balcony fused neatly into the side of the building, and an open door leading into what has to be the royal suite.

Chuck is upright and awake when Mike pokes his head into the royal study, which isn't unusual at this point—he's been getting stronger every day, obviously chafing at the doctor's recommended rest. What _is_ unusual is that he's at his desk, murmuring to the empty room, and the air smells like magic. Mike raps on the doorframe with a knuckle, and Chuck jumps and whips around, hands raised to defend himself.

"Oh," he says when he sees who it is, and stands up abruptly, turning his back on his desk and spreading his cloak just a little bit so it hides what he was working on. "Oh, hey, Mike! Uh, what, what're you…doing here?"

He probably means it to be subtle, but Mike can see the way he shifts nervously and taste/smell/feel the magic Chuck was working, and he's not fooled. "You're not supposed to be doing magic again yet," he says, not like he's…telling his king what to do, of course, just kinda reminding him what the doctor said.

"I know," says Chuck. "I'm—it was only a little bit, I'm fine."

"Yeah?" Mike cranes his neck, eyes narrowed, and then blinks and cranes some more when his eyes catch the faintest sparkle of something shiny peeking out from behind Chuck's spread arms. "What're you workin' on?

Chuck glances back, glances up at Mike, and then sighs and steps back out of the way. "So, this was supposed to be a surprise," he says, and reaches back to pick up the silver breastplate of his formal mail. The clawmarks worked into the metal have been stripped away; the scales have been sharpened, engraved with lines of intricate, abstract shapes.

"Dutch helped me," Chuck says, while Mike stares, hypnotized by the glitter and shine. "I've been working on really small-scale free-form, so making the metal do what I tell it to is, uh..." he doesn't finish that thought, just holds up the breastplate toward Mike's chest, squinting a little like he's taking in the whole picture. "...It looks good," he says hopefully, and pushes it a little bit more, and Mike stares down at it and then back up at him, eyes wide. "Makes your eyes look, uh."

He stops, flushing, but that's okay because Mike is barely listening anymore. He's just gaping, silently trying to fit his brain around it. This is his. Chuck is giving him this, so bright and precious and _made for him._

"Oh," he says, and it comes out breathless and stupid with adoration. "Wow, oh, sire, _wow._ " The metal is polished to a shine like a mirror, and there are little chips of green stones in the metal, flickering in the light. Mike is _dying._ "It's— Ha, man, oh my god. _Wow._ "

"You like it?" Chuck says, almost shy, and Mike gapes at him. "I was thinking, uh… You're still technically forsworn, so, I need to renew your vows, y'know, and, uh… You guys should have nice stuff to wear to— _oof_."

Mike swings him around, laughing, and Chuck flails and yelps and then squeaks as Mike buries his face in Chuck's neck and breathes him in, neck to neck and cheek to cheek, wings spreading out wide around them. Chuck can't spread his wings back, can't display his joy, but he laughs too, saying Mike's name and _sir, enough, come on!_ He's whole and he's Mike's and Mike's his and Chuck's _happy_ to have him, and it's just as good. It's perfect.

—

The second time the burners are knighted, it's out in the courtyard under a cloudy, windblown sky. The throne room is still being repaired, glass half-replaced and floors only just swept clean; there's no throne, and Chuck's crown hasn't been made yet. But it's perfect anyway. People crowd into the courtyard to watch, craning to get a glimpse of Mike's teeth and eyes, the scales and pointed ears, and Mike is kind of nervous and kind of defensive and kind of breathtakingly, agonizingly proud.

He kneels in front of his king, and everybody knows, everybody can hear Mike swear he would never betray him. Everybody watches as Lord Vanquisher tells Mike and his flight, his burners, _your conduct has been faultless, your loyalty unwavering, your service above and far beyond what you owed._ Hears him say, _you sacrificed all your king could ask of you and more, and it is our honor to reinstate you as knights of Raymanthia._ Everybody sees Lord Vanquisher, sees Chuck, sees Mike's _king_ claim him. Make Mike his again.

It's got nothing to do with being a hero, and it's not about people thinking he's cool or whatever. It's got _everything_ to do with the way the king looks at Mike when he stands, the trust and respect and fondness in his eyes. Everybody knows that Mike is trusted, now, trusted and wanted and _loved_. Nobody can doubt that.

For the first time in his life, beyond any shadow of a doubt, Mike belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your Purest Imperial Majesty,  
> This humble citizen seeks audience with your agents at the earliest convenience. I have uncovered information originating from your Majesty's home and capitol, and I have reason to believe it is of highest interest to the alabaster crown. 
> 
> Order, Glory, and Prosperity,  
> A Servant Of Deluxe


End file.
